For the Little Sisters
by BrokenDreamer
Summary: in the style of Ann Rinaldi, set in Boston and the events leading up to the Revolution...please R&R. the first Ann Rinaldi post! hope to see more in the near future...COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The sun spread gradually across the Boston waterfront.I sat on Long Wharf, watching as Boston quickly came to life.First the dockhands arrived, ready to start their days' work of loading and unloading the cargo of the Boston ships.Then came the merchants, to check in with their captains, and await the arrival of their trade ships.Mayhap a boy would approach one of them, the proud bearer of a message from some important person in Boston.As I watched the usual hustle and bustle, I strolled up the wharf unnoticed by the multitude of merchants, dockhands, and street rats, as my Mama would call them.Those street rats, like me, were here to watch the work, and perhaps carry a message for a merchant.

As much as I wished to be the bearer of one of those messages, I knew I could not.I stayed separated from everyone on the wharf, careful not to be seen.For while my clothes were perfectly ordinary for the average street rat, my ragged breeches and hat, the face which it hid was far too clean to be of the lower classes, the hands too delicate to be those of an ordinary messenger boy, or even of a boy at all.

Mama would kill me if she found I'd gone out this day, and kill me 5 times over if she found the manner in which I had gone out.I could see it on the front page of the Boston Observer "Abigail Atkins, daughter of well-known mason, was killed this day, after returning home in her eldest brother's old clothing."I wondered what Charles would say to that?That I had been wearing his clothing, the ones he had worn years ago, before he left.

Charles, my mysterious brother; the one no one spoke of, whose room was always locked, the key having been lost long ago-or so they thought.That key, which was now in my possession, and which I used daily to enter my petty sanctuary.My sanctuary from the fury of my mother, the whinings of my sister, and the Tory activities of my father and brothers.

Charles, who left 10 years ago, at the age of 15, two years older than I was then.I didn't blame him for leaving.Those same things, which had driven me to sneak out of the house that day, dressed as a young boy, must have caused my brother to leave for good. 

"Here boy!Deliver this to Mr. Revere for me."Having wandered away from Long Wharf, I now found myself face to face with a man, who was asking me to deliver a message to Paul Revere himself!He was a man of some elegance, wearing well-tailored clothing, but not terribly fancy.The simplicity of his suit showed he was not a merchant, but the order of his dress suggested he was not an artisan either.

He started to hand me the message, and suddenly stopped, his eyes fixed on my delicate fingers, and flawless skin, as I quickly tried to hide my hand from his gaze."What's your name, boy?" he asked, his blue eyes piercing my body like tiny knives.I was overcome with fear.I had not expected to address anyone this day, and had thought of no alias to give him.

"Jeremiah Hathorne, sir." I replied, taking the name of my friend Susan's brother._Please let him be satisfied _I thought._Please don't let him know of anyone by this name._To my great relief, he did not question my response.

"Take this directly to Mr. Revere, and do not let anyone but him see it.Tell him that he owes Charles Atkins 8 shillings, to be paid as soon as possible."I heard no more of what he told me.I ran as fast as I could, away from my mysterious brother, who everything I knew of was in his books.I should have known before he was a Patriot, but I had been too intrigued with him to put two and two together.No wonder he was never spoken of!They were so upset when they found where his heart lay in this "petty dispute over a little taxation"._But he was not a Patriot when he left_ I thought _so why did he leave in the first place?_

As I ran, I could hear my brother calling me, telling me that I had forgotten the letter, and the spoken message was not all I was to deliver to Mr. Revere.I didn't listen, much as I would have loved to deliver such a thing to the well-known silversmith.I ran faster than I'd ever known I could run, through countless alleyways and side streets, none of which I had even known existed.

"Here now!Watch where you're goin, why doncha!"In my frenzy, I had run into another of my kind, and had knocked him into the mud.His clothes were torn and tattered, but he had a look of pride about him, as do all of us Bostonians.That look of determination, which drove so many of the Patriots, and which many thought Boston had more than its share of.His hair was a dirty blond, a combination of coloring and street grime, and he was very tall and lanky.

He had been bending down to pick up his hat, and when he looked up his eyes suddenly widened, and I realized that my own hat had fallen off, and my radiant brown curly hair was now fully visible, falling softly upon my shoulders."No wonder you're runnin," he said quietly "It en't safe for you ta be out, especially with times as they are.Was one of them lobsterbacks tryin ta lay a hand on you?"I tried to run, but he was blocking my way.

"My mother would kill me if she knew I went out this day.Please let me go.I must get home before she notices I'm gone."I looked at him, my eyes pleading, hoping he was more decent than the British soldiers of whom he spoke, who plagued the streets night and day, making them as unsafe as he said.

"If you'll tell me who your mother is, could I walk you home?" he asked._God help me! _I thought _he's decent, alright, but I know Mama would think otherwise._

"She'd never allow it.She's Tory, for one, and for another, well…she wouldn't approve of you at all." I said, gesturing at his clothing.

"You're one of them ladies of breedin, then?" his eyes had already been so wide I thought they would rip open, but they now widened even more."She doesn't have ta know," he said. "I'm Chris Snieder" he looked at me with his haggard brown eyes, and a look of understanding passed between us.He held out his grimy hand, as I gave him my delicate one.

"I'm Abby," I said.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 

"Where've you been?" asked my brother Tim, as I descended the stairs in my proper attire.Tim was tall and gangly.He had the blue eyes and blond hair characteristic of my family, and looked very much like my father.

"Aw, leave the poor girl alone," my brother John spoke now.He also had blond hair and blue eyes, but was much shorter and stockier than anyone else in the family.John had always been kinder to me, and while I still did not like him, I felt closer to him than to anyone _else _in my family.

Both Tim and John were older than I by many years.Charles would have been the eldest in the family, but had been banished long ago.That left Tim as the eldest, with Meg a few years younger than him.Then came John, as the third youngest, and me as the very youngest child, looked down upon always.

"Leave me alone," snapped Tim, always above everyone else, _especially _John and I."This isn't any of your business."Of course Tim would say that.Always picking on everyone, his favorite phrase was "I'm the oldest in this family, and I say…".All I wanted to do was scream _no you're not!Charles is!_

But his name was never mentioned.It was as if he had never existed.I often wondered._If I were to do something as bad as whatever it was that Charles did, would I be forgotten as well?_I half wished that would happen, as then I could perhaps find a life with people who did not hate me for the color of my deep brown hair, and the fire in my sharp green eyes.

"I know you weren't home, Abby," Tim continued, grabbing me by the wrist."Because I checked in your room.Now if you don't tell me where you were, I'll have to use the switch on you."Of course Tim _would _say that.Always so high and mighty, as if his authority came directly from God himself.Not that Father would care what Tim did to me, but nor had he directly given Tim the right to beat his sister.

"Tim, Father never gave you the right to beat his daughter," said John, standing up for me at last.I had always known John didn't approve of how Tim treated me, but I was amazed at his sudden boldness.

"She's not just his daughter, John," snapped Tim, releasing me and glaring fiercely at John."She's my sister, and I think I can judge whether or not Father would approve of my actions."Tim grasped my wrist again, and hurled me onto the floor.I started to get up, but he pushed me down again, now clutching the switch in his bony hand.

"Tim, you've gone too far this time," John said, as he grabbed Tim's arm, and tried to wrench the switch from out of his grasp."Abby is my sister as well, and I'm telling you to stop."

"I'm the oldest here!" yelled Tim, as he shook out of John's grasp.But John, being a decent brother for the first time in his life, hurled himself at Tim, knocking him to the ground.

I remained on the floor, watching my two brothers fiercely tackle each other, seemingly determined to rip each other apart.I had seen my brothers fight before, but it had always been restricted to yelling, rather than physically attacking each other.They continued to fight for a short amount of time, before my mother entered, shocked at their lack of "brotherly love", as she so often put it.

"John!" exclaimed my mother, her hand on her heart."I am amazed at your lack of respect for your elders!" Of course Mama sided with Tim-she always had.John was at fault for this fight, as well everything that ever happened in this family-providing it couldn't be blamed on me.

"I'm sorry Mama," said John, as he looked guiltily at the floor.Oh, I was so angry!John was a decent brother to me, and here Mama was about to punish him for it!John would never help me again, knowing what would happen if he did.

"I should hope you're sorry!" Mama said, as she walked closer to John, and told him his punishment.He was to stay indoors for the next 2 weeks, without visitors or messages of any kind.I was filled with strong disappointment._I won't be getting any help from John now, _I thought in despair.

"You owe me big," my brother John was certainly not very happy about his punishment.But he also seemed to be proud of himself, that he had stood up and done what was right for once.

"I know, John," I said, looking at my disheveled brother, with his black eye and torn shirt."Thank you."His chin was still bleeding, and through all of his misery he managed to give me a hardy smile, as if to say, _you're welcome_.

"So where do you go?" he asked, referring to the countless times I had gone missing in the past few weeks.

"Wherever my feet take me," I answered, inclined to be as vague as possible, even around John.While I hated all of my family, I could barely tolerate John.But even he was untrustworthy, snobbish, and generally hateful.I knew that if I told him where or how I went, he would undoubtedly tell Tim.

"Abby, I think I deserve an answer from you, considering as how I've just saved you from the switch a moment ago,"It was always leading towards something with John.I now realized that he had only stood up for me so that he could get me to answer some of his questions.

"No matter what I tell you, John" I said, now glaring at him fiercely."You will tell Tim, which will lead to the switch for me.Do you intend to save me from it yet again?" I asked, with newfound boldness.

" I should have let him beat you!" John raved, walking back and forth in his tiny room."Maybe it would have taught you some manners!"

"It would've saved _your_ neck, as well," I screamed, and hoped that my green eyes piercing into him like tiny knives."Thank you for your help!" I exclaimed loudly, and stormed out of the room.

Just as I had begun to think that I did indeed have _one _decent sibling, I had been proven wrong.I had learned yet again, that I utterly loathed every member of my family, excluding Charles.And Charles was not, technically, a member of my family any longer.

I hastily donned my boy's clothing, and rushed into the street.I had become so fed up with my family, so tired of their hatred and condescension.I thought maybe I could form a new life, as a young boy, running various errands for people.I walked through the streets of Boston, and sought out the only person I knew in such a life, Chris Snieder.

"Back again so soon?" asked Chris, quite surprised to see me."Like I said, it en't safe fer you here."Oh, so this was how he was always going to be.It isn't safe, it isn't safe.I didn't consider it safe at home, either.I explained to him what I wanted to do, and as dubious as he was, he agreed to let me accompany him on his errands.

We first traveled to the home of John Hancock.He was a rich young merchant, recruited by Sam Adams to pay the bills for the Whig doings.One might therefore consider him quite gullible, to be recruited simply based on his money.However, as Chris told me, John Hancock was smarter than all of that, and often had some insightful suggestions for his fellow Whigs.

John Hancock was a thin, touchy, and proud young man.Although even some Whigs agreed that his intellectual abilities were very mediocre, the fact that he kept his uncle's fortune alive for so many years remains as a tribute to his intellect.

He always seemed very nervous whenever I saw him, and was in constant bad health.He considered it the gout, and was taken to headaches.It had always seemed as if he were continually trying to please the public, but I believed that the constant sneering heard about him was more than his due.I saw in him a man who had a sincere eagerness to do great things with his vast fortune.

As we approached his great mansion, I looked up at the three stories of stone.In the coach house was his legendary 'chariot', with a coachman from England to drive it.The English gardeners tended the magnificent gardens, and from the looks of John Hancock's mansion one might not be able to tell that his politics lay with the Whigs.

The door was answered by a black slave, who haughtily told us "Mr. Hancock is indisposed".No, we would not be allowed to see him, as we would undoubtedly only increase the severity of his headache.Chris was forced to give the servant a note for Mr. Hancock, under the instructions that it was to be seen by no other than him.

Through the alleys and back streets of Boston, we eventually reached the home of Sam Adams.His home was exactly the opposite of that of the young John Hancock.A small home, it looked as if it might collapse at any moment.

At first Sam Adams had wished to set up business as a politician.His father lent him a thousand pounds, which he then lent to a friend, and never saw it again.He either didn't notice or didn't care.His father was dismayed in his general disinterest in money or material objects.

Sam Adams was then apprenticed to a merchant, when the merchant complained to his father that he was training businessmen, not politicians.His father took him from the merchant house, and kept a close eye on him while he worked in the family brewery.

When his father died, Sam Adams let the brewery generally decay, and the wharf where it once sat was now disappearing into the sea.He then could focus on his real passion: politics.He was generally unsuccessful, being middle-aged when he acquired his first public office.But this did not stop him, nor discourage him in the least.

Sam Adams then became Boston tax collector, a job for which he was not at all qualified.He was softhearted, as he listened to people's hard luck stories, and of course could collect no taxes.There was talk of him being some fifteen hundred pounds short.

Through constant persistence, Sam Adams gained the status he had now, as controller of "the mob" and a leading force towards independence in the colonies.

We knocked, and were admitted immediately."I've a message for Mr. Adams." Chris told the servant who answered.She seemed skeptical about letting a pair such as us into the house, but went to fetch her master nonetheless.Sam Adams appeared presently, and recognized Chris.

"You've a message for me, have you?" his tone was not unfriendly, but he addressed Chris as his station permitted, as a master would speak to his servant.Was it not he who often employed many boys such as Chris to carry messages, and, as the public often surmised, to harass the British soldiers?

Sam Adams was a man frail, middle-aged man.His hair had prematurely grayed, showing the toll of his life's hardships.He had a soft pallor to his face, and his hands shook faintly, as did sometimes his voice.Sam Adams' tattered, dusty clothes suggested middle-aged failure, and general disinterest in appearance.

In fact, Sam Adams' only real interest was politics.He apparently loved to pull the strings, and set the stage for each new act.It did not particularly matter who strutted onto the stage, as long as he followed what had been planned.Sam Adams was perfectly happy to let another man strut, while he mapped out exactly what this man was to do.

"Yessir," Chris replied.He handed Mr. Adams the message, and was awarded a coin for his efforts.We then turned out of the house and walked back to North Square, as close to my home as I would allow Chris to escort me.

North Square was full of its usual hustle and bustle.Three times a week it was transformed into a market square.Foods of all kinds were being sold.Towering stacks of grain, and delicacies from faraway places could be bought, as if it were no trouble at all.North Square was a neat, tidy place, with elaborate and respectable houses.Beautiful trees were found all around, and tidy gardens lined the sides.I waited until Chris had left, and quickly turned the corner onto North Street, slipping in the side door of my well to do home.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

Over the next few weeks, I met Chris whenever I was able to escape my home.I accompanied him on his errands, and eventually I received some of my own.We delivered messages for some of Boston's leading Whigs, such as Drs Joseph Warren and Benjamin Church, and Paul Revere.

Our most frequent stop seemed to be the shop of the _Boston Gazette_.This was the Edes and Gill printing office, located behind the old State House on Dassett Alley.Chris' friends often accompanied him, all trying to spit across the alley, as a gifted man could do.They often wondered why I did not join in, but Chris would gallantly change the subject.When the time came to enter the shop, however, only Chris and I were allowed inside.And Chris had been hard put to convince them of my trustworthiness.

Above the shop a 'long room' was situated.In this room, members of the Long Room Club met in secret, keeping no record of their proceedings, for they were much too close to treason.This secret Whig society, started in 1762, was one of the first anti-British societies.

Chris and I were instructed to memorize the members of the Long Room, and alert them of meetings using a secret code.Nowhere did an official record of the members exist.And we could only hope that neither did an unofficial record.

I never considered the politics of these men, merely that they needed messages delivered, and that meeting them was much more interesting than sitting at home sewing, with the family that so obviously hated me.

Of course, that family hated me even more when it became a constant occurrence that I would disappear for long periods of time, without permission to even leave the house.When I returned home I would receive a raging lecture, often followed by the switch.My father would try to lock me in my room, but my faithful friend Chris had also taught me how to climb out of windows, and when one day I found myself tied to a chair, I used the knife he had given me to cut my bonds.Chris had, of course, given me the knife to "protec ya from the bloodybacks", but I soon found other uses for it.

"Abby, one of them fine British Officers called today," Mamma said, while walking about the room in agony, flailing her arms in every direction."I had to tell him that you were visiting your friend Susan.Imagine the scandal, should anyone find out how often you have been disappearing these days.I can hardly imagine what you have been doing!Nor can I imagine the reaction of my friends, should they find out.And I do not care if you are sewing for the British soldiers!You cannot disappear like this!" She continued in a frenzy, and contained me in the parlor until my father returned.It was late in the day, and I did not see the need to escape, as it was too late for even a young boy to be out.

When my Father returned home, he was also enraged that I had disappeared yet again."I cannot believe you, Abigail," he exclaimed, outraged.His egg-like head turned bright red, as he grabbed my wrist and dragged me into my room."Have you no consideration for the reputation of this family?"Of course it is all about the family, isn't it?And he would have much rather that I were not even a part of that family.

As I sat in my room, I wished I could climb out of my window, and never return.But I saw the impracticality of this plot, and decided to wait until my parents had calmed down, perhaps a few days, before I ventured to see Chris again.I consoled myself with thoughts of the day when I would run away for good, and forget the dreadful existence of my snobbish family.

Almost a week passed before I was able to escape my prison-like home, and in that time I pined for the back alleys and streets of Boston, and the bustling wharfs and markets.As I listened to pompous Loyalists and British Officers drawl on about how this disturbance over taxation was simply a stage, and the silly "rebels" would get over it after a while.

I was infuriated!Get over it?How could we get over these ugly, old British, who were trying to control our everyday life?But I immediately checked myself: _You, too, _I told myself _are British, and unless you'd like to run away on a boat to France, you always will be._And while I ran errands for the "rebels", I still did not consider myself to be one of them.

When I finally escaped from the watchful eye of my Mama, she was sewing with one of her haughty friends, who found me a simple, annoying girl.At first I had been required to sew with them, but they soon found me so enraging that I was required to leave, much to my delight.

In my scurry to escape, I nearly ran into the street in my ladies' clothing, but fortunately I remembered myself, and donned my disguise before leaving the house.

Once on North Street, I turned left, and continued until North Street changed to Middle Street, then turning right on Union Street.I passed through Dock Square, still bustling with activity.Once through, I paused at the Old State House, then continued behind it, to Dassett Alley.

The street was abandoned, as it usually was.Occasionally Chris' friends would accompany him to the shop of the _Boston Gazette_, but obviously Chris had not come here yet today.I leaned against the side of a building, and awaited his daily visit to the shop.

I did not have to wait long, and nor was I surprised by the great noise that accompanied Chris in his wake.A crowd of boys entered the alley, talking loudly and laughing even more loudly.When my presence was noticed, they were suddenly silent.

"Jemmy!" cried Chris' friend, John."Where ya bin?We were begginin' ta think them bloodybacks had got you!"There was a general nodding of heads, and I was suddenly encircled by this group of boys, being clapped on the back, and all wanting to know what had happened that should keep me away from them for a _whole week_.

I explained to them that I had been visiting a cousin in Lexington, and while they wondered why I had not told them of it in advance, they were satisfied.Chris and I then entered into the small shop of Edes and Gill, ready for our next assignment.

Benjamin Edes, printer and great Patriot, typically ran the shop.He was a short, roly-poly man, with small spectacles and a balding head of brown hair.

"Hello Chris.Jemmy," said a voice from the corner of the shop.It was Mr. Edes' son, Peter.Peter Edes was a tall young man at the age of 16.He had dark brown hair, and deep brown eyes.Like his father, Peter was always pleasant and friendly.He ran the shop with practiced ease, and knew the business of printing (and of treason against King George) near as well as Mr. Edes himself."My Father's not in right now.But he wonders if you could deliver these to Royall Tyler," he said, handing Chris a few papers along with a coin.Chris took these, and we turned to leave the shop.

"Jemmy," Peter said, and I turned to face him."Could you help me with the presses while Chris is gone?" I nodded, and walked towards the back of the shop.Chris seemed more than a little miffed of being denied of his companion, but I pretended not to notice.He eventually left to deliver his message.

I liked Peter very much, and we got along quite well.I felt lucky to be one of the few people to have his father's trust.But more than that, I knew that no matter how much my mother, or even people like Paul Revere and John Adams, felt that people like Chris were "rabble", they were the legs upon which society stood, and were just as decent as any book-learned and rich merchant.People like Benjamin and Peter Edes knew this as well, and I respected them much for that.Peter often regarded me a little puzzled, as if there were something very queer about me that he could not put his finger on.I wanted very much to get to know him better, but was often very shy around him because I knew that the more I got to know him the more likely he would be to find me out.

I helped with the printing, often keeping my eyes demurely on the ground, as a lady should.But wait-I was not a lady, and had to keep that in mind, as Peter was becoming very suspicious of my strange behavior."You needn't be so scared," he exclaimed suddenly, almost exasperated. "It's not as if I plan to cut you up into little pieces and use your skin to print the paper on!"After that things went much smoother, and gradually over the weeks Peter and I became good friends.He understood that for some reason Chris did not want me running errands on my own, and found it a waste to send the both of us on errands together, so oftentimes I helped at the printing shop instead.

I did walk home on my own that day, smelling the salt air of the wharves, and enjoying my new friendship and freedom.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 1

Hey y'all, thanks for the nice reviews!Anyway, in answer to some questions: yes Abby will meet her brother, as this chapter reveals.Yes, I absolutely loved "The Last Silk Dress", and I couldn't help but have my work be GREATLY influenced by it…I can hardly call this story original, but hey, it's fanfic.And by the way, I'm an avid fanfic reader as well, and I'd love to see some more Ann Rinaldi fanfic up here!!!

Chapter 4 

"Abigail!Come down here this instant!"Mama wanted to see me again.Somehow I was not surprised.After having spoken rudely to the British Officer who had visited earlier this afternoon, I quickly retreated to Charles' room, hoping that Mama would forget her anger after a while.She didn't.

"I'm coming, Mama," I said reluctantly, sure that my violent death was soon to come.I took one last look at my Patriot brother's books, the ones that had taught him to think for himself-something I was becoming more and more sure was forbidden in this household.I cautiously opened the door, and locked it behind me.

I arrived in the Parlor to find an infuriated Mama, sitting bolt upright in her favorite chair."Where have you been all day?Hiding in your room, no doubt.I am very disappointed in your treatment of Earl Percy.He came to pay a friendly call, and you were quite rude.If I didn't know better, I'd say you were following in your brother Charles' footsteps," she said slowly, waiting to see my reaction.I was quite taken aback.This was the first time I had ever heard her utter his name aloud.It was as if she _knew_ I had seen him not a few weeks ago.

"Well you needn't look so surprised," she said, a look of amused satisfaction coming over her face."I know you are aware of his existence.I also know, that whenever you wish to hide from me, you go to his room.I am not blind, Abigail, as much as you might wish me to be.Do you find it interesting in there?" she asked, smiling with that wicked smirk she always had, when she knew she had beaten me."Answer me.I don't have all day."

"Yes, Mama," I said sweetly."His books are most interesting, and as much as I know he must have done something very awful, he is my brother, and I am very curious about him." I prayed she would forgive me if she believed that I innocently wished to know about my brother.However, it was not a sister's curiosity that drove me.It was intrigue.I felt a strong sense of endearment towards my brother, if for only one reason: Mama hated him more than she hated me.

"As much as you wish to know about your brother, everything about him is a bad influence on you," Mama looked at me sternly, hating me more than ever, and knowing that I knew more about Charles than I let on."You stole the key to his room, didn't you? Give it back, Abigail." 

I said I had left it in his room, and went upstairs to get it.I took one last look around Charles' room, my sanctuary.Those books, which I could now recite as if each one was the Bible itself.The clothes, of which I had one suit in my own room.The trunk where he must have kept his good suit of clothes, and the letters he had received from persons whose correspondence he valued.

I looked out the window, seeing for the last time the Boston waterfront, just as my brother must have seen it so many countless times.I felt a tear roll down my cheek, but quickly brushed it away.I had never known Charles, but through this room I had begun to understand him.I did not remember when he left, but closing the door to his room, I felt as if I were losing him all over again.I slowly descended the stairs, and gave the key to Mama.

I acted as sweetly as I could to her, but she noticed my tearstained face, and showed her disapproval fervently.Could she hate Charles this ardently, simply based on his political views?Somehow I guessed that it was not only his views which angered her, but his actions.

Her anger came over her suddenly, as if she had just realized I had been hiding in Charles' room.I covered my face with my arms, as her switch came down upon me, stinging my back again and again.She hit me over and over, until she was too exhausted to continue, and left me quivering on the parlor floor.

How I wished that Charles hadn't left!That he were here to defend me, to sooth me, my Patriot brother, who at this very moment was fighting for the freedom of the colonies.

_Freedom_.The word spread through me, sending a tingle up my spine.Freedom from oppression, from condescension.The right to do what a person thinks is right, to think however one wishes, and not be beaten for it. 

Suddenly I understood that the "dispute over taxation" had nothing to do with taxation.It had to do with those fundamental rights, which all people should possess.And that people like Paul Revere, John Hancock, and Joseph Warren were fighting for as I lay sobbing on the floor.

That people such as Sam Adams and James Otis, and my brother Charles were trying to gain, not only for themselves, but also for their little sisters, who they had forgotten they even had.

_Well I guess it's time the little sisters did something too, _I thought._I'm not going to sit around here and let my Mama beat me, while my older brother fights for everyone.There must be something I can do._

I went up to my room, where my one set of boy's clothing still remained, and quickly pulled on the breeches, and put on the coarse wool shirt, with my brother's initials on the cuff, and pushed my hair up into the hat.The shoes, which were too large for me, I stuffed with newspaper, and put on the homespun jacket over my shirt.Why my brother had owned such poor clothing was beyond me, but I was glad to have such an inconspicuous disguise. Cautiously, I snuck out of the house, making certain that no one saw me.

I could have been my brother John, but he was much stouter than I., and I was much too short to be Tim, both of who were allowed to come and go at will, because Mama knew they were doing something as good citizens of England.Even if Mama did trust me to be a good Loyalist, she would never let me leave the house, not even to see my friend Susan, whose family was a staunch Loyalist family as well.

I ran like a deer running from a pack of lions, not knowing where each road was taking me.I eventually found myself face to face with Chris Snieder.I'd intended to see him tomorrow, but today would be good enough.

"That's the second time you've bumped inta me!" he said, a look of amazed humor across his face."Is the bloody loc ness monster after you, or is runnin your hobby?"He was obviously happy to see me, although a bit taken aback.We looked at each other a moment, his brown eyes peering into my piercing green ones.

"I think it's time I told you about myself, Chris," I said slowly."Then maybe you'll understand why I'm always running."So I told him about my family, and about my brother Charles.He just stood there listening, as if he'd heard stuff a lot more interesting than what I was telling him.Until then I'd not told him my last name, and when I did, his eyes widened for what seemed like the hundredth time since I'd met him.

"So if your name is Abigail Atkins," he said, still amazed beyond words."That'd make your brother Charles Atkins, right?"

"That's right.What of it?" I asked, praying that Chris wouldn't want me to meet him.

"What of it?He's a bloody hero!_Everybody _knows Charles Atkins," he said, looking at me in a new way, as if I was now some sort of goddess because I was the sister of Charles Atkins, and at the same time I was completely ignorant and deprived, because I knew nothing about my own brother.I knew nothing about him, because my mother never spoke of him, and beat me when she found I'd been in his room."You've gotta meet him!" he said, suddenly very excited."Well come on!" he said, impatiently gesturing me to follow him.

"Wait!Chris, you don't understand," I said, looking pleadingly at him, praying that he would understand why I couldn't meet my own brother."My family's Tory.I'm a Patriot.But I'm also a girl.Girls can't do anything for the cause, and if I met my brother, he'd find out who I was sooner or later, and I wouldn't be able to do anything any more," he looked at me with bewildered incredulity, and was silent for what seemed like an age.

Finally, he spoke."What were you plannin ta do anyway?Ta get into their societies you gotta come from Harvard, which, by the way, your brother did.Were you plannin on runnin messages and callin them soldiers bloodybacks?That en't safe for you," he said, and now it was my turn to widen my eyes, and stare at him in disbelief.

"It's true.You've got strong spirit, but you en't got the body strength ta match.Whaddya think'd happen if one o them bloodybacks found out you was a girl?Even I can't match 'em.The only way I'm safe is by doin' nuthin ta make 'em mad enuf ta attack me." 

He continued as I still stood speechless, not expecting to hear such a thing from him.Chris, who had been so accepting when he found out what I was, who could have told the whole of Boston that I'd been masquerading about in boy's clothing.I felt betrayed, but I knew that no matter how Chris felt, he also understood me, and would do anything to keep my identity secret if that was what I wanted.

I'd thought he admired me, and I could see now that he did, but there were other ways he felt about me, too.Feelings that went beyond friendship, and that I could only hope did not constitute love._He's smitten with you, Abby, _I thought, but I feverishly hoped that my thoughts were wrong. 

"All right, Chris, I'll meet him, but not as his sister.I'll meet him as your friend Jemmy, who has started running messages for the leading Whigs," I said, as I could see the concern sweeping over my friend's face.He shook his head, and I could hear him thinking of how much my brother would disapprove if he found out, and how concerned he was about me.

"Well okay, but doncha blame me when one o them lobsters comes onta you," he said, his head still shaking with concern.At that moment, a British soldier walked by."Hey bloodyback!" Chris yelled, as he threw a snowball at him."Go back to England!"

I looked into his haggard brown eyes with my piercing green ones, and I could swear he flinched."Your brother wouldn't like this, but he'd sure be proud o you.He always said his family was a bunch o cowards, and he'd be glad ta know that one o them isn't," he said, staring back at me.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 1

Chapter 5 

"Hello Jemmy, how goes it today?" Again I stood in the shop of the _Boston Gazette_, Mr. Edes greeting me in his usual, warm manner.

"Well, thank you," I replied.He looked at me susupiciously.I had made a mistake, as usual.Not even a well-bred lad such as myself would say "well" and "thank you" in such a polite manner.

"Good, good," Mr. Edes said, dismissing my speech to be nothing more than a strange queerness on my part."Peter has some things you may help with in the back room."

"Hello, Peter."

"Jemmy," he nodded in my direction, engrossed in the printing at hand.

"Your father said I might help you," I said.Peter had become accustomed to my refined ways of talking.While I dropped these ways when talking to friends of Chris, I could never bring myself to do so around Peter.No doubt he formed his own theories as to why I spoke so well, but if so he never expressed them.

"Yes, but first I'd like to show you something," he said, a mischievious glint showing in his eyes.I could always tell when Peter was feeling such, as it seemed as though amber specks would appear in his normally green-brown eyes.I walked to where he stood, and he motioned to the freshly-printed paper on a desk nearby.It was a political cartoon, depicting the Governor bowing before King George, and saying he had come up with a new method of exploiting the colonies.The next frame showed both men bankrupt in ruins, drinking a brandy manufactured in the colonies.The King said "Damn the colonies!Nothing good ever came of them."I suppressed a laugh, knowing my girlish giggle would be far too suspicious."Do you never laugh?"

"I fear not," I said, feeling a familiar redness in my cheeks._Oh bog's breath! Must I always be such a girl?!_Peter looked at me curiously, and shook his head.

"Well help me print a few of theses before my father sees.I fear he would not approve," he said, a wide grin on his face.

"He would not, would he?A staunch patriot such as himself?"I raised an eyebrow, a talent I had acquired as a young girl, wanting to imitate the fun-loving older girls I looked up to, flirting with the men.Mama did not approve.

"Aye, even such."I laughed.I could no longer help myself.Luckily for my identity as Jemmy, Peter laughed as well, his hearty laugh filling the room and partly blocking out mine.We were good friends, almost the same age.Yet physically, Peter was growing up quickly.His deep voice was almost that of a man, while mine, of course, stayed a boyish treble.He towered almost a head above me.None of this stopped our friendship, though.I was glad for that.

After printing the "scandalous" political cartoon, we turned to more official printing.A few amused glances exchanged between us, however, kept us both inwardly laughing for quite a while.

"Why must you always wear that hat?" Peter suddenly asked, in the middle of another topic of conversation.I always dreaded the day someone would ask me that, or demand that I take it off. Would Peter understand if I told him the truth?I thought perhaps he might, but did not want to wish ruining our friendship, as I knew such a confession would do.Even should Peter be accepting of my true identity, we would never be able to have the same boyish camaraderie we now shared.

"It's the only one I have," I replied, biting my lower lip nervously.

"Yes, but it is considered polite to take off one's hat when inside.

"I-I," what could I say?"I prefer to keep it on, that's all."He could tell I was lying, he knew me too well by now.He shook his head silently, and returned to printing.Things went awkwardly for a while, Peter still wondering why I felt the need to lie to him.I tried to joke with him, but he would only half-heartedly laugh and go back to whatever he was doing.Eventually, however, Peter lightened up, and almost returned to normal.

"Thank you for your help," Peter said, as I prepared to leave.

"You know how much I enjoy to, Peter," I said, and winked slyly, a boyish smirk upon my face.

"Of course, Jemmy.Don't we all," a broad grin spread over his face, and I laughed and turned to go.He gently put his hand on my shoulder, turning me to look at him."I do wish you felt you could be honest with me, Jemmy," he said, looking beseechingly at me."I wouldn't tell a soul, if that is what you'd wish."

"I know, Peter," I said."I wish I could tell you, but I can't.Please try to understand."

"Alright, but remember what I've said."

"I will.Thank you."

I looked into his hazel eyes, a swirl of brown and green.I saw friendship, and even a bit of understanding.But there was something else, something I could not name.Confusion, certainly, but could it be concern?Yes, I had a friend who cared about me, who was afraid for me and did not know for what reasons he should be concerned._Thank you, Peter._I silently said.His hand remained on my shoulder for a few seconds, until he realized it was there.Something passed between us there, something I couldn't comprehend.He felt it too, I know he did.He looked at me questioningly, bewildered. 

He awkwardly took his hand away and clasped it behind his back.

"I must go."

"Aye," he replied.

"Until tomorrow then."

"Until tomorrow."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 1

Hey y'all, another note for ya: someone raised the question of a romance between Chris and Abby.yes, there will be romance in this story.I am a hopeless romantic.However, it won't necessary be with chris.Some possibilities are: peter, chris, jeremiah, and or one other character you haven't met yet.I haven't quite decided who it'll be, so I'm always open to suggestions.Thanks for all the reviews!

"You shouldn't be here, Abby," Susan whispered fiercely."If anyone saw you, your Mama would find out for sure!"We were sitting in the orchard behind her house: me, Susan, and Jeremiah.Things were a bit uneasy between us, all three of us sitting awkwardly, hardly speaking a word.

Mama had almost killed me when she'd caught Jeremiah and I kissing one day, and she'd forbidden me to see Susan, much less Jemmy.Jemmy was courting Lavinia Flucker, who was more Loyalist and snobby than anyone else in all of Boston.Although Jemmy and I felt awkward around each other, we both knew that all we felt and had ever felt for each other was friendship.

"Can I trust you two?" I asked them, looking first at Susan, with her curly blond ringlets and brown eyes, then at Jemmy, with his slightly darker blond hair and deep blue eyes.They both nodded fervently, much taken aback that I should even ask such a question."I only ask, because everything's changed so much.The troops have come from England, Jemmy's courting Lavinia Flucker…" 

"Abby, you know I'll always be there for you," it was Jemmy who spoke now, looking as if I had stabbed a knife into his heart."I know you two never got along, and I won't court her if it means losing your trust," he looked at me pleadingly, and I saw for the first time that it wasn't only I who had changed.

While I was running around in my boy's clothing with Chris Snieder, my friend Jeremiah had grown up.I suddenly felt so alone, with no one to turn to.He was no longer a Loyalist because his Father was, but because _he_ was.

"No, Jemmy," I said, making one last attempt to find my old friend, before I lost him completely."It isn't that.We've all changed so much.I haven't decided about Susan yet, but both you and I have changed greatly," and now it was my turn to plead with him, to ask him to be the old Jemmy, the one I used to know.But at the same time, I knew that I wouldn't recognize the old Jemmy either, because I wasn't the old Abby.

"What is it you want to tell us, Abby?" now Susan spoke, wanting to hear my juicy little secret, but not as the girl I'd always known.I somehow knew that if I told her, she wouldn't giggle and say how _horribly shocking _I was, and that we wouldn't roll around laughing for hours, wondering what "ol' Captain Atkins" would say if he found out.But I also knew that just because we'd all changed, didn't mean that our friendship no longer existed.Perhaps our changing would make us closer, and perhaps it would tear us apart, but no matter what I told Jemmy and Susan, they would keep my secret to their graves.

"All right," I finally said. "I've so much to tell you, I don't know where to begin," but I did begin.I told them about the day I first met my brother Charles, and bumped into Chris.Then I told them how Mama beat me for being in Charles' room, and how I became a Patriot.And how I was now running messages for people such as Paul Revere, Joseph Warren, and John Hancock.I did not, however, tell them about my plans to meet my brother Charles, or about the feelings I was now sure that Chris held for me.

"No wonder your shoulders are all scratched up!" exclaimed Jemmy."Ol' Captain must put the switch to you nearly every day!" It was true.Every day upon returning home, I'd get the switch for it.I knew it was only a matter of time before they found out what I'd been doing all day, and maybe then I'd be banished from the house, like my brother Charles. 

"He does," I said softly."Then he locks me in my room, but I always find a way to escape.He tied me to a chair yesterday, but he didn't tie a very strong knot, so I was able to get out," Jemmy and Susan looked at me with amazement, not believing what they were hearing.

"Abby, it's bad enough that you're going out, but if they found out what you've been _doing, _God knows what they'd do!" said Jemmy, a look of concern coming over his face.So we were still friends.He didn't care that I was a Patriot and he a Loyalist, everything was as it always was!I was overcome with a tremendous sense of joy that I hadn't lost my friends, after all.

"Abby!" cried Chris, who had been watching the Hathorne house while I spoke to my friends."He's coming out now, and he's fuming mad," "he" was my brother, Charles, who had been speaking to Governor Hutchinson, across the street from my friends' house.I hadn't believed my good luck, when having been trailing Charles for an hour, I ended up across the street from Jemmy and Susan's home.We had a message for Charles, but we had to speak to him alone, for it was not to be heard by _anyone_ but Charles himself.

"I've gotta go," I said impatiently."oh by the way, if you ever see me in these clothes, you've gotta call me Jemmy, 'cause that's what I'm going by now, okay?" I said, impatient to finally speak with my brother, but also reluctant to leave my two friends.

"Okay," they both said.We looked at each other, as if we had just made a bargain, the three of us.Their understanding, for my trust and friendship.

"Oh hello, Chris," said my brother, not at all surprised to see him."I believe I owe 8 shillings to Edes and Gill, do I not?" my, word travels fast.We had started spreading the word of this but 2 hours ago, and already Charles knew of it! 

Edes and Gill printed the _Boston Gazette_, a well-known Whig newspaper in Boston.Every once in a while, a secret meeting would be held above their shop.If a member of this club heard that he owed 8 shillings, it would mean that all the members were to meet at 8 o'clock that night.

Among the members of this secret club were John Hancock, Paul Revere, Sam Adams, Joseph Warren, and James Otis.James Otis had started the Long Room Club (as it was called), but had taken to talking so much, that another man could hardly get a word in edgewise.Therefore, Chris and I had not notified him of this meeting, due to the requests of the other members.

"And who is this?" my brother gestured to me.I thought I would melt under his gaze._God help me,_ I thought._Please don't let him recognize me!_

"Mr. Atkins, this is Jemmy," said Chris.Oh how could he be so calm! "He runs messages for the Long Room members," he never faltered, spoke as if I were an ordinary messenger boy, doing the bidding of the great Whigs.

"So another recruit, eh Chris?" Charles said, a look of amusement coming over his face."Don't you think Sam Adams's got enough rock-throwers for a while?" The two talked on as if they had known each other forever, my brother treating Chris like a younger brother or an apprentice.They joked about the "great Sam Adams", and the mob.Had Chris seen Mac recently? No? Neither had Sam Adams.Charles wouldn't be surprised if the North End gang had broken away from the mob, and knocked off Mackintosh, the South End's former leader.

While they continued their discourse, I stood rooted to the ground, not daring to move a muscle, lest Charles might notice anything peculiar about me.When they finally finished talking, I was utterly relieved that Charles, who I found was observant and quite intelligent had found me just another messenger boy-queer, perhaps mute, but nothing more.

"You coulda talked some," Chris said, as we walked away."He may be your brother, but he en't a monster.He's got a fierce temper, though, glad I've never seen it," Chris talked for a while, looking down at the ground, and when he finally looked up, a tear rolled down my cheek.I prayed he wouldn't notice it, but he did."Here now, what's that fer?" 

"All my life, all I wanted for my family to _like _me, but they didn't.Mama hated me, because I didn't have blond hair like my sister, Meg.I don't know why everyone else hated me, but they did," the tears were now streaming down my face like rain, as Chris tried violently to comfort me.

"And now, the one person I've been told I shouldn't want to like me, is the only one whose approval I want.But how could he ever approve of me?You said he was smart, and he is.He'll find me out sooner or later, and that temper-the one you said you're glad you never saw- it'll come out, against me," I said between sobs.

I soon found that Chris had guided me through the countless alleys in Boston, until we arrived at the back entrance to my house."Alright, you need some sleep, and a beatin you could do without, so you sneak into your room, lock the door, and don't come out til you feels better," Chris said, gently wiping a tear from my face.

I walked up the steps, and turned to look at him, still staring.There was a tenderness in his eyes, as he slowly shook his head.As I went inside and closed the door, he was still standing there, gazing up at me.I watched from the window, as he reluctantly turned and walked away.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 1

Chapter 7

I awoke in the morning to find an infuriated father, demanding to know where I had been.He not only wanted to know where I was yesterday, but each day I had been missing before then."All right, if you won't talk, I'll have to find some way to make you," he said, as he reached for the switch.He picked it up and started to hit me with it, then stopped."I've been using the switch on you for a while now, and it obviously isn't working," he smiled at me maliciously, as I cowered below him."I cannot lock you in your room, because you always manage to escape.So, you may be locked in your closet until you decide to tell me where you've been going these past weeks".

I didn't flinch.I calmly allowed him to drag me into my room, and put me into my tiny closet, where I kept my finest dresses and shoes.I sat there for what seemed like forever, not banging on the door, not crying out nor shedding a tear, and refusing to tell my Father where I had been.When I was finally let out of my meager prison, I was watched closely by some member of the household; so closely, that I was not even able to send a note to Chris, telling him I was alright.

"So Miss Abigail, your Mama tells me that you are an excellent pianist.Would you mind playing a piece for us?" the young British officer spoke to me for the first time this evening.After three days of being kept under a very watchful eye, I was forced to attend a dinner party Mama was holding for a few British officers

"What shall I play for you, Officer?" I asked sweetly,glad to be excused from the table.

"Why don't you play Yankee Doodle for us," he said, in his pompous, snooty voice and spotless uniform.I was overcome with anger, and would have lashed out at him, but thought better of it, remembering what Chris had once told me._If someone makes a joke about you, use it to your advantage.Take Yankee Doodle: the lobsters made that up to taunt us, but we've infuriated them, by using it for marching our militias._

Oh, how I wished to see Chris.I was overcome with a sinking feeling, that I'd never be able to see him again.I gritted my teeth, and played Yankee Doodle, keeping Chris' words in mind.

When I returned to the table, they applauded, and began talking about the insolence of the so-called "Americans".I had taken no note of the conversation, until one of the senior officers brought up an incident of which he had just recently heard."Just this afternoon, a young street rat was 'horribly murdered by a lobsterback'.In fact, the young sprout, along with a whole crowd of them had been throwing chunks of ice at the poor Regular, and he was only- 

Before he had finished his sentence, I was upon my feet, asking Mama if I might retire to my room.She agreed, and I rushed up the steps and into my boy's clothing.I ran through the streets to the printing shop, and pounded on the door until it was opened, by Peter Edes."It was Chris, wasn't it?" I asked, although I already knew the answer.

"Yes, I'm afraid it was," Peter answered. I said nothing, just stood there staring at him, not believing what I heard.All the time I had been pouting, thinking I'd be stuck in my home forever, and that I'd never see Chris again, I hadn't been so wrong.I would never see him again, but oh, in such a worse manner than I had predicted!

I remembered the last time I had seen him, as he had tenderly dried my tears, and looked at me with that longing, pleading look, as if he knew that his love would never be satisfied.

"Jemmy, is that you?" a man asked from behind Peter."We tried to find you, but then realized that Chris was the only one to know where you lived, or even your last name, for that matter." As he spoke, he stepped forward into the light, his piercing blue eyes boring holes into mine.By some twisted chance of fate, my brother Charles stood in the doorway, looking down upon me.

I ran, for the second time, from my brother.I ran as fast as my legs could take me, but he was faster than I, and not exhausted by 3 days of being constantly watched.After running through alley upon alley, of which Chris had so faithfully taught me, he caught up to me, and grabbed my wrist."Jemmy, I know this comes as a shock to you, but running is not the solution," he said softly, still grasping my wrist.

"I'll thank you to unhand me," I croaked, overcome with fear and grief.I glared up at him, praying that he wouldn't recognize me as his sister.

"Alright, but you mustn't run away," he began to let go of my wrist, but suddenly grasped it, and stared at my shirt cuff.After a while, he shook himself, as if awakening from a trance, and released me.I started to run, but he called out to me."Please, Abby!Chris wouldn't want you to go off on your own," he was pleading now, begging me not to run from him again.

I turned then, knowing no amount of running, or denying the truth would convince my brother.But I stared at him blankly, as if I had no idea why he had called me "Abby"."My name is Jemmy, Mr. Atkins.I don't know who Abby is, but perhaps you ought to go home and lie down.No doubt Abby will be waiting for you there," I said, knowing my denial would do no good.

"No, Abby, don't contradict me now.This isn't the time."

"Mr. Atkins, even if I were this Abby of who you speak, you would have no way of knowing, and much less proving this fact." I said, glaring at him, hoping that my green eyes were piercing holes as deep in him as his blue were boring into me.

"I began to suspect when I first met you.The way Chris looked at you-" he paused for a moment, expecting me to understand, but when I didn't, he continued "it wasn't how one friend would look at another.Had it come from someone other than Chris, I would have cast my suspicions away, but I'd never seen such tenderness in his eyes.In those deep-set, determined eyes, that look was unnatural, even if it was for a beautiful young lady.And as he was dying, Chris asked for Jemmy again and again.Even in his delirious state, he did not use your real name.He wouldn't tell us where to find you, knowing it would only bring you trouble." 

I was sobbing by now, the tears streaming down my face._O Chris!You gave up your last farewell to the girl you loved, to protect her from a simple beating! _Charles noticed my sobbing, but continued to talk.

"By this time I knew that you were not a boy, but I still did not know who you were.This night, when I grabbed your shirt, or rather _my _shirt, it all became clear to me: you were missing because you'd been locked in your closet by ol' Captain, as I had heard from your brother, John.Yes, John.We see each other every now and then, despite our politics." He stopped now, and offered me his handkerchief.

"What are you going to do?" I asked, drying my tears, as they still poured out at twice the speed I was able to mop them up.

"What do you mean, Abby?" he asked, looking down at me with brotherly concern.

"Chris always said you'd got a fierce temper, and wouldn't be happy when you found out." I said.He was silent for a moment, and then he suddenly threw back his head, and let out a deep, rumbling laugh.

"You may think this is funny, but I certainly don't.I get enough punishment at home, you know, and they aren't even aware of where I'm always disappearing to, or what I am doing." I said indignantly, quite taken aback by his reaction to this new discovery.

"I'm not angry, Abby, and if I were, you'd be right: you get enough punishment at home.But I mustn't see you in these clothes again.If you must sneak out of the house, wear proper clothing, if only for Chris' sake."He said, watching me tenderly.

"But that's just it.For Chris' sake, I have to continue sneaking out in these." When he didn't seem to understand, I continued."Do you think Mr. Revere would let me run messages for him if he knew I was a girl?He'd say it wasn't safe for me to be out and about, and he'd probably be correct.But in my boy's clothing, none of the soldiers would approach me."

"They approached Chris," Charles pointed out.

"No, Chris approached them.Knowing Chris, he was probably throwing ice chunks at them, with screams of 'go home, bloodyback!' and 'lobsters for sale!'" I looked up at him, wishing he would understand.

"Charles, if I don't do something, I'll go mad!I can't just sit at home, listening to the officers ask me to play Yankee Doodle, and being all sweet and innocent.They killed Chris!Am I supposed to just forget that?"

"They'll kill a lot more people before they're through here, and I just don't want you to be one of them!" he was angry now, angry with me for not being a little innocent doll, bowing to his every command."God's teeth, Abby!It's not safe for you to be out, and it's entirely improper to be out in those clothes!"

"Charles, I'll go mad if I don't do something!I need to do something!" now I was angry._I should have known that there isn't really a single reasonable person in my family. _I thought.

"What you need, is a good whipping!" he said, his face was white with rage, as I learned what Chris had meant when he said that Charles Atkins had a fierce temper.

"You needn't do that, Charles." I said quietly."In case you'd forgotten, I'll get that when I return home."

"I'm sorry, Abby.I was not aware of that." His face softened, and the color began to return to it."Although I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, whipping having been a daily occurrence for me as well, but I never thought he would whip his daughter."

"Ah yes.God forbid he might whip a daughter!Them womenfolk are so weak, she'd never survive it," my sobbing had subsided partly, but now increased again, to twice its original force. "I may not look very strong right now, but nor would you if you found that your best friend was dead, and not only that, but after you'd been locked in a closet for 4 days, and tormented almost to death for 3 more!" 

I screamed these words, as I collapsed onto the street, bawling violently, and I must have passed out shortly after my head hit the ground.The last thing I remembered was my brother Charles bending over me, looking at me fondly, as if he just found something he had lost long ago, and had forgotten it was missing until now.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 1

Chapter 8

I awoke in my own bed, my Mama looking anxiously down at me."You gave us quite a fright, darling," she said in the voice she always used when she wanted something from me."I hope now you've learned your lesson about going out by yourself." _What did Charles tell them?_I wondered, praying it had not been the truth."Your sister Meg comes back from school in a week, and we cannot have you acting in such a manner while she is here!"

Ah yes.Meg.Perfect Meg, with her blond ringlets and starry blue eyes.She always had been Mama's favorite, and why shouldn't she be?Meg was always so much the Tory daughter, the pet of all the soldiers.Was she not engaged to a British Major now?

Mama had always been so blind about Meg.She never noticed how she beat her servant, Sukey and how she toyed with her beaux endlessly, leading them on to do her every bidding, and then discarding them when they were no longer needed.

"Are you listening, Abby? Such a coincidence that it should have been your own brother Charles who saved you."Mama was speaking to me._I suppose he did save me, didn't he? _I thought, _but not from the dangers of the street, from you._I did not know what Charles had told my family, but I was grateful.Mama looked at me pointedly, speaking slowly, annunciating every word with precision.

"You always were so fascinated with him, weren't you?He left this family, just like you always wanted to."Mama realized how cruel she'd been to me, and was now trying to think up an excuse._You would do that, wouldn't you? _I thought, _you hated me without reason, and now you're trying to find a reason for your hatred.Well, it doesn't work that way. _

I didn't go to Chris' funeral.I had heard it would be a grand affair, his funeral procession more of a parade, with hundreds of people, perhaps 50 of which knew him.The Patriots were determined to make a martyr out of Chris, and I wondered, _would he really like to have his death glorified so?_But I knew the answer to that question: Chris would be proud-no, beyond proud-for his death to act as propaganda for them.He would feel as though he had died fighting for the cause he believed in so much.

I first started by asking Mama if I might go out the day of his funeral."No, Abby, of course you may not go out," she told me."Do you mean to tell me that after what happened to you just a few nights ago, you want to risk your life again?" she asked, more exclaiming in exasperation, really.

"Please Mama," I entreated, "I must go out this day!"

"No, Abby, I refuse to let you go.Today, of all days, is not the day for you to be on the streets.Those treasonous 'Patriots', as they choose to call themselves, are holding a parade for that scum boy who was 'murdered by the British',"I said nothing, only pleaded with my eyes that she would let me go.She said this last statement, looking at me hard, and she saw."But that is why you wish to go, isn't it?" _Oh Lord, have mercy on me now!_

"Why do you wish to go, anyway?" she asked, as a look of disdain came over her face.She snapped, "There are two reasons why people are attending that street rat's funeral.First, because they knew him, and second, because they are Patriots." 

She was yelling by now."Which reason is it, Abby?" she asked, grabbing my arm, as her nails pressed deep into my skin."Look at me!Which reason is it?I'll get an honest answer, Abigail!" she looked straight into my eyes, with her clear blue ones, exactly like Meg's, looking like a cat about to pounce.

"I knew him, Mama."I said it so quietly, it was a miracle she even heard me, but I looked straight at her, defying her fiercely.However, I did not tell her that I was a Patriot, knowing that though I was giving her a reason to hate me even more I was not giving her a reason to kill me, which she would certainly do if she knew my loyalties.

She slowly released her strong grip on my arm, and sat down on the settee.She no longer looked like a cat, but a beaten horse, after running too far and too long. _She always hated me. _I thought._This should make her happy, because it justifies her hatred._

"I tried to teach you to be a quiet young lady," she said after a long silence."But you had too much spirit.You always did, Abigail.And that spirit is what will undo you."She said, as she glared solemnly at me.

"Oh Mama!" I cried, and put my arms around her on the settee.She removed them from her person, and held me at arms distance, disgusted.

"Abby, I will not allow you to go.While I see that you will most likely never be anything close to a fine lady, you are still my daughter.And as such, you will not associate with such riffraff.You will not leave the house without an escort.And you will NEVER disgrace this family again."

"Mama, I promise you, I shall behave perfectly, if only you allow me to go to his funeral!" I pleaded, no longer defying her, as it had taken me so much courage to do.

Of course I was not allowed to go.What had I expected?But I knew my Mama was capable of much more than yelling at me, and frightening me with her clear blue eyes.I resolved to be more obedient to my parents, much as I hated them now more than ever.Somehow Chris' death had been a sort of wakeup for me.It showed me that the path my life had taken could not continue forever, and eventually I would have to better my ways.But could I simply be an obedient daughter forever?And one day, could I marry a piggish Englishman and be an obedient wife?


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 1

Chapter 9

I stood in my room, staring at myself in the mirror.I resolved this would be the last time I donned my boy's clothing and disobeyed my parents.I shook my head sadly, and snuck out the back entrance of my house.

My feet took me surely to where I wished to go, memorizing every site I knew so well, every scent, every sound.Perhaps one day when I sewed in my prison, I could think of these things and remember.The wind blew a few wisps of my hair out of my cap, and I pushed it back up out of my face.This visit could not be long.

And there I was, standing in Dassett Alley for the last time.I timidly knocked upon the door, and, to my relief, Peter himself opened it."Jemmy!We were beginning to worry about you," his broad smile showed his bright white teeth; I could hardly restrain myself from crying.

"Peter, I must speak with you," I said, biting my lower lip with a vengeance to stop the pain constricting my heart."Would you walk to the wharves with me?"

We walked through the streets of Boston, the bustling streets, filled with vendors, shopkeepers, and lads such as ourselves.The wharves were strangely quiet this day, the salty sea air resonating amongst the few men, waiting for various ships to come in.But none were scheduled that day.

"I am sorry about Chris," Peter said."I know the two of you were fast friends."I could tell he meant it.He studied me softly, seeing how true his words had been.

"Yes," I said, looking down at the ground, trying to hide the tears clouding my eyes."That we were.I shall miss him much."

"He would love it though," Peter bent down a little, leveling his eyes with mine."To know that his death has been glorified and turned into a rallying point for Patriots everywhere."

"Yes, but is it right?" Oh blast the tears, now streaming down my face."One in a hundred of those people actually knew him, and even less know how his death transpired."

"I know," he said, taking my hand.I needed his comfort, but oh this charade of being a boy!As such I was supposed to be strong, to not cry.But I was a boy, and Peter was almost a man."We must think of Chris now, not those who would twist his death into something it was not.Chris would be proud nonetheless.He would be ecstatic."

I smiled at that last statement, knowing how true it was.I wiped away my tears, and gave Peter a wan smile.He smiled back, standing back up from his bent-down position and brushing a clump of brown hair off his forehead."That's the spirit," he said, grinning back at me.We walked in silence further down the wharf, enjoying each other's company.

"I am moving to Lexington tomorrow," I finally blurted out.If only I could tell him the truth!But Peter was more sophisticated than Chirs, the kind of person who should be completely shocked at my behavior.Perhaps Peter would have understood-he was different.I knew that, but this was how I wanted to remember my days as Jemmy; as days of friendship, camaraderie, and equality.Where I was trusted, where I was not looked down upon because of my gender.So I lied. 

"We'll miss you," I could tell he meant it.That look in his eyes, full of earnesty and…and what else I do not know."I'll miss you."Truth, perhaps.Depth. 

"And I you."

"Give me an address and I will write to you."_Oh goodness, what to do?_

"I…I don't know where I shall be," I stammered.

"Where should I write to then, for now?"He looked at me, completely innocent of what I was hiding.

"I don't know," I said, praying fervently that he wouldn't see I was hiding something.But he did.

"Jemmy, what are you hiding from me?" he asked, puzzled."Always this secrecy, when there are so many questions people wish to ask.Why do you always wear your hat?Why do you speak so properly?How is it you can read so well, always your back so straight, walk so soft.Why do you look at the ground so oft, why do you not partake in the more vulgar of Chris' friends' activities-"  
"Peter, I know you have many questions, but I cannot answer them," I said, a pained look upon my face."Please try to understand."I put my hand gently around his forearm, pulling him to look at me.

"No Jemmy, I can't understand." He shook out of my grasp, still looking at me, waiting for an answer."What is it you hide from me, from my father, from everyone?"

"Peter, do you trust me?" I asked.

"Of course I trust you-otherwise you wouldn't know as much as you do about the doings of my father's shop," he said.

"Then please trust me when I tell you I cannot tell you what you want to know.You wouldn't understand."

"Did Chris know?"

"Yes."

"He understood, why couldn't I?"He asked, now becoming frustrated, perhaps a little angry.

"You know how different you and Chris were," I said, looking at him pleadingly."Peter didn't speak as well as you, he partook in the more vulgar activities, he couldn't read, his back was never straight…" I continued with this list until Peter stopped me.He seemed to guess where my thoughts were taking me.

"So Chris could approve of your actions because he was less cultured, whereas I would be disgusted?"Peter shook his head."If that is the case: I'm your friend, Jemmy, and I have a right to know.And as your friend, I'll understand."Now it was he who was pleading with me- pleading for my friendship, for my trust.

I said nothing, only looked deep into his hazel eyes.I prayed silently that he would not hate me, would not be disgusted, that he would understand.Then, I guided him to a back alley, and ever so slowly took out the pins keeping my worn hat upon my head.I gently took off my hat, and my dark brown hair cascaded down my shoulders.

He didn't say anything, just stood there gaping.He opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it and remained silent.I looked at the ground, ashamed._I should have known that he_ _wouldn't approve! _I thought._But he deserved to know._"I'm sorry, Peter," I said.I put my hair back into my cap, and started to walk away.

"Jemmy wait," Peter said, and grabbed my wrist.I turned slowly, still keeping my eyes fixed on the ground at my feet."Or," he paused, and glanced at the ground."What _is_ your name?"He stared back at me, willing me to look at him.My strong gaze on the ground did not waver.

"Abby," I said.Peter gently pulled my chin up and looked me in the eyes.He extended his hand, and I took it, unsure.

"Well Abby, I'm glad to meet you."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10          **August 1771**

            "Hello, Abby" said my sister Meg, looking at me condescendingly, above me as usual.  "My, you haven't changed one bit."  _Yes Meg. _I thought.  _My hair is still brown,  and my hands not nearly as delicate as yours; but I have changed more than you can imagine.  _

But did she not notice that I was taller, thinner, and my bust had grown substantially?  Mayhap she did, but she would never admit that I was becoming beautiful.  I was simply her naïve and inferior baby sister.  "Oh, but don't worry, sweetie.  Maybe someday some lunatic of a man will want you."  

Over a year had passed since that night I met Charles.  Meg had planned to visit in March of last year, but when the Boston Massacre occurred, Mama was afraid she would be tarred and feathered if she returned.  I secretly wished even worse would happen to Meg.

So far I had managed to be quite obedient and submissive to my parents' wishes.  But I now found myself having to fight harder than ever to behave properly.  All I wanted to do was fly at my sister, and rip out her deep, blue, crystal eyes.  

"And I've heard you met Charles.  My, my, we are getting curious, aren't we?  Intriguing, isn't he?" _yes, Meg, you're too shallow and blind to see how intriguing he really is.  _"Although I warn you, Abby.  You may find yourself in a bit over your head."   

            "I think I've got the right to meet my own brother," I answered, knowing that whatever I said to Meg would be conveyed to Mama.  

            "Of course you do, Abby.  I was only warning you, that you may find out more about him than you really want to know," Meg said, still smirking as if she knew something I did not.  How unaware she was, that I was merrily laughing inside, having more information hidden from her than she could possibly imagine.  

             "Meg!  Abigail!" called Mama.  "We'll be late for the dinner party if you don't hurry!"  We were to attend another social with the bloodybacks.  Mama knew what torture it was for me, to sit and listen to those pompous beasts, talk about the insolent "Americans".  But she continued to bring me, hoping to train me to be a perfect _Loyalist _daughter.  I knew she was even plotting behind my back, trying to find one of the young officers to be my beau.  

            "Alright Mama.  I'm coming," I slowly walked outside and into our carriage.  The social was to be held on Hannover Street, and was a formal ball, for all of the fine Loyalist ladies.  

I despised my mother for the dress she made me wear, as its neckline was quite low, and the shoes hurt my feet terribly.  _Perhaps I can step on all the officers' feet, _I thought, knowing that Mama was showing me like a peacock, eager to marry me off and be rid of me.  

Somehow I knew that I would not mind my dress, should I be going to a Whig ball.  I knew my figure was quite respectable, but I despised that fact that it was being _used _to impress the pompous, ugly, British officers.  

            I found the party a marvelous affair.  The ground and walls were strewn with flowers, and lanterns filled the room, making everyone glow as little fairies.  _So this is what our taxes go towards, _I thought _so that the officers can have grand parties, and gorge themselves with food while the people of Boston starve in the streets.  _

            "Abigail, come here," five minutes into the party, and already my mother was trying to introduce me to a young lobsterback.  I feigned deafness, and walked behind a group of loyalist ladies.  I saw my friend Susan across the room, and waved to her.  

            "Abby!" she cried, obviously delighted to see me.  "Where have you been?  I haven't seen you for over a year now!"  and I thought she would have forgotten me.  I had heard she was engaged to a British officer, and would be embarrassed to even admit she'd known me.  We sat down in a corner of the hall, and talked of old times.  Jeremiah was at school in New York now, and Susan was to be married in the spring.  

            "Look!  There's Paul Revere," Susan whispered to me, and as I looked where she pointed, I saw the stocky Paul Revere, talking with a redcoat, along with a taller man, whose back was turned to us.  "All of the Loyalists love him.  He's diplomatic, and he makes us wonderful silver." Susan told me, and as she talked on my eyes seemed rooted upon Mr. Revere.  

Then his companion turned, and I gasped with a mixture of shock and delight.  The tall, blond man talking to Mr. Revere was my own brother Charles.  

I had not seen Charles since the night Chris died, in late February of 1770.  He sent a present to me at Christmas, but Tim and John, my brothers burned it under the instructions of my Father.  It had been a lovely brown muslin with purple flowers, all the way from France.  

I excused myself from a bewildered Susan, and approached Charles.  Suddenly I was not so unhappy with my dark green silk, which was so fitted to my waist, and showed off my bust.  

I watched my brother for a moment, as he spoke casually with various Tories.  _How can he be so at ease with his enemies?_  I thought.  I wondered why he had come to the party in the first place.  In my girlish naivety, I sincerely believed that because the Parliament robbed us of our money, and the more ill-mannered of the lobsterbacks were insulting to us, that all British and Tories were as horrible as the most despicable of the bunch.  

            "Hello Abby," said my brother, looking down at me in his elegant suit, as he sipped his wine nonchalantly.  "I thought you might be here this evening," Charles said, introducing me to Mr. Revere.  

            "Charles, I'd no idea you had such a charming sister!" remarked Mr. Revere, and Charles began to chuckle, obviously thinking of how many messages his "charming sister" must have delivered for his companion.  

            "Well neither did I," said Charles, still laughing to himself, as he looked me up and down.  "I hardly ever see her, as my Tory family would consider me a bad influence," he continued, after he saw that his first remark had slightly upset me.  "Is old Captain here?" my brother asked.

            "Yes Charles," I replied, and gestured towards where my father and brothers were standing, talking with Governor Hutchinson.  His tall, upright figure stood proud and snobbish, as he most probably sneered on about the _rebels_ and the _insolent troublemakers _in Boston.  

"Abby, do you remember Hannah Mather?"  Charles asked.  "She's Tory, and a good friend of your Mama's, but also of mine."    

Miss Mather was a kind, roly-poly woman, with mouse-brown hair, and soft, kind brown eyes.  The few times that I had seen her, she had always been so friendly and warm, and motherly.  _Why couldn't I have a mother like that?_ I thought.  

I saw his plan right away.  I would visit Miss Mather, and Charles would visit her as well.  Or, were I feeling incredibly mischievous, I could visit Charles, or even Jeremiah and Susan.  I suddenly felt compelled to throw my arms around my brother, who had now become my savior.  

I nodded in understanding.  "How often may I visit Miss Mather?" I asked, enthusiastic about this new way of gaining freedom from my Tory home, which was now my prison.  

"As often as your Mama will allow you to," Charles replied.  "She is at this moment speaking with your Mama about giving you lessons in sewing."  I smiled, as life suddenly held so much more joy in it than it had only moments ago.  

"While my family is Tory," Charles now addressed Mr. Revere.  "My sister, Abby is not." Charles obviously trusted Mr. Revere enough that he knew this information would not get back to my family.  

"Which reminds me, Abby; do they know of your views?" Charles asked, gesturing to my father, who was still conversing with the Governor.  

"Not for certain, Charles," I replied.  "But I know they suspect."  Charles looked puzzled, obviously wondering why they should suspect of my Patriot leanings.

"Did my story not convince them?" he asked.

"I know not what you told them, Charles," I said, looking at him fiercely, wanting to know what he told them on that night when we first met, more than ever now.  "But they started to suspect through a mistake of mine." I said, looking at the ground, hoping that Charles would not be disappointed in me.  
            "What was that, Abby?" Charles asked softly, noticing my humiliation.

"I requested that I be allowed to attend Chris' funeral." I answered, still looking at the flowered floor of the party, not daring to see Charles' reaction.  

I was overcome with a great sorrow, as I thought of Chris for the first time in a long while.  I saw his dirt-caked face, and his deep-set, determined eyes, and felt the tears begin to well in my throat.  

I hoped that Mr. Revere would not wonder at my familiarity with Chris Snieder.  _Has Charles told him of my other identity as Jemmy?  _I wondered, praying he had not.  

"I'm sorry, Charles," I said.  "I knew they would not let me, but I couldn't help but ask.  I knew if I didn't, I would always wonder _what if they would've let me, and I was just too afraid to ask?_"  I looked at him now, praying that he would understand.  His face softened, and he looked tenderly down at me.  

"You needn't be sorry, Abby," he said, and smiled weakly at me.  I could tell he was concerned.  He was afraid for me!  Me, his little baby sister, who he held no responsibility for, and could easily cast away like an old hat.  But he chose to help me, to teach me of the world, and of myself.  


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11                         **September-November 1771**

While I respected my brother much, there were still many things, which I did not understand about him.  First of all, there were his blue eyes.  Those blue eyes, which bore holes into me even now, and which had the same fire in them as Chris' had.  That fire, that want for freedom.  But there was also something else in his eyes: a deep, haggard sadness, which I could never understand.  

A few months after I saw Charles at the Loyalist social, I had visited Miss Mather many times, and seen Charles often.  He introduced me to the refined Patriot world, and I truly met those men, who I had so many times delivered messages for with Chris.  It was always understood by everyone that I saw, that I was really at Miss Mather's house doing sewing, and was _not_ speaking with any of these Whigs.   

I met John Hancock, the rich young merchant, and Sam Adams, the frail, spidery politician, who was said to be the brains behind all of the Whig activities in Boston.  The two of them were a good team: Sam Adams made the plans, and John Hancock paid the bills.

I would have enjoyed seeing James Otis again, but his insanity had taken over too much, and he had been taken out of Boston.  He had been so passionate, and so moving.  It was he who had started the Long Room Club, along with many of the other Whig societies in Boston.  

John Adams was a jolly little man, who was so far mostly staying out of our dispute with the Mother Country.  His views, though, were completely Patriot.  Most of his friends were Patriots, and he his cousin was the great Sam Adams himself.  I had not delivered many messages for Mr. Adams, but I liked him very much.  The very expression in his eyes seemed to say "Come and talk with me.  I'll always listen".  

I saw Dr. Benjamin Church once or twice at one of Charles' dinners, but had never much liked him.  There was always something unnerving about him, and I believe that Charles shared my opinion.  I had always pictured him like a spider, ready at any moment to wrap me up in his sticky web of treachery.  

When I first met Dr. Warren, Chris had introduced me to him.  I liked him very much, and always jumped at an opportunity to deliver a message for him.  He was always so kind, and, unlike the other Whigs who I delivered for, he had taken the time to become acquainted with Chris and I.  He was also very attractive, with his blond hair, and deep blue eyes.  Other than my brother Charles, Dr. Warren was the only one who had ever detected anything queer about the little messenger boy, Jemmy.  

            Dr. Warren first met Abby in September.  After a few visits with Miss Mather, I specifically asked Charles if I might see Dr. Warren.  He agreed, and told me he would arrange for an introduction to be made, which it was.  

            "Joseph, I would like you to meet my sister, Abby." I was at a small Whig dinner party, with a few of Charles' friends.  Mr. Revere was there, along with John Adams and his wife Abigail, and Dr. Joseph Warren, and his _fashionable_ wife.  

            "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Atkins," said Dr. Warren, as he looked at me with his deep blue eyes, and his kind, attractive smile.  I felt I would melt under his gaze.  Why did he even marry his wife in the first place?  She was so snobbish, and unright for him!  

I languished endlessly in my admiration for Dr. Warren.  I was completely smitten with him.  With his extraordinary good looks, and never-ending kindness and gentility, he almost symbolized the Patriot cause to me. _It is men like Dr. Warren, _I thought, _who have started this Revolution, and will make sure that right is done in the end._  

"What did you think of Mrs. Adams?" Charles asked, as he drove me back to Miss Mather's in his carriage.  

"I liked her very much," I replied sincerely.  Abigail Adams was a friendly and kind-hearted woman, who I immediately took a liking to.  Her smile was just as her husband's, as if to say "I'll listen to you, and I'll understand".  She knew her place as a good wife, but I sensed that she had much influence over her husband, and that should she lose that influence she would rebel, as I longed to do.  I admired Mrs. Adams greatly, and hoped that I could live up to her standards someday, as I did share her name.  

However, I also thought that Abigail Adams was too quiet, and calm.  I knew that I could never be happy with her simple existence.  Should I have been placed in that situation, I knew that I would try to make more of a difference in the Revolution, rather than sitting at home, and at most advising my husband.  How young and naïve I was, to think that running in the streets and disgracing myself would do more good than the work which Mrs. Adams did.

"And how did you find Mrs. Warren?" Charles asked me, this time looking much more intent, and I knew that he suspected my feelings for Dr. Warren.  

"I thought she was rather snobbish and dull, like a preening peacock," I said, always honest with my brother.  

"Abby, half the girls in this town are smitten with him," Charles said, and he looked at me very sternly.  "But I trust that you will act more appropriately than they do, throwing themselves at him as if he were not yet married."  My cheeks had become a bright red by now, and I nodded meekly.  

"Yes Charles," I said.  "I shall act with the utmost decorum."  We now reached my prison, and I quickly climbed out of the coach.  I looked back at my brother, and I could see that he was sorely disappointed in me.  Could he not understand, that when a person is smitten, that fact is not determined by whether or not the person they like is married or not, but they become smitten simply because they _are_?  

            I climbed the back steps, and watched him drive away.  His jaw was stern and drawn, and I could see clearly that I had not only disappointed him, but I had supposedly proven to him, that I was just another Boston girl, with her frivolous ways and silly fancies.  


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12          **February 1772******

February  made me more restless than ever.  Chris had died in February, and when the fateful month came again, I found myself longing more than ever to don Charles' old clothes, and take on my past existence as Jemmy.  

Charles knew this.  Mayhap we'd be on our way to a social in his carriage, and I would glance longingly down a side street, remembering Chris, and the life I had with him.  There was nothing a woman could do in this great conflict, except "the woman's job".  I did not know what_ that _meant, except sitting home cooking and cleaning, doing nothing to help the cause.  

            "Abby, what do you want to do?  Run messages like you used to?" asked Charles, frustrated with my moping around, pining for what he couldn't understand.  He didn't understand what it was like to be idle, watching people fight a battle that you wanted to be part of.  Charles had always fought what battles he wanted to, and let no one prevent him.  And yet here he was, preventing me from fighting my battles.  

            "Yes, Charles.  That's what I want to do." I said, staring at him head-on, defying him for the first time.  

            "You can't, Abby.  It just isn't proper, and I won't allow it."

            "All right," I said softly. "If I can't do that, then what can I do?" I asked him, wishing he would understand, but knowing he wouldn't.  "I can't just sit around like this!  I'll go mad if I don't do something!  Don't you understand, Charles?  While you're out there attending your meetings, making plans to strike against the British, I sit sewing and listening to nonsensical gossip with shallow girls, who don't even understand what this turmoil is all about!" I talked quickly, and collapsed onto the settee, exhausted and disheartened.  Then I rose, and began to walk towards the door.  "No, I don't suppose you do.  How could you understand something you've never experienced?" I asked, as I opened the door, and walked outside.

I was about to close it when Charles spoke.  "I do understand, Abby" he said, and I could tell I had hurt him.  There was more sorrow in his eyes than usual, and he looked so much more tired than I had ever seen him.  "I fought in the French and Indian War.  Did you ever know that?  Captain Atkins wouldn't let me go, but I went anyway, after a year of sitting at home, wanting to go out and fight.  When I returned from war, I was not welcome at home, but nor did I want to be.  I threw away everything, to fight for England, who I now fight against.  Do you see what I'm saying, Abby?  I didn't know my heart, or my place.  I threw everything away, for a fight that wasn't mine.  Whether or not this dispute between the Mother Country and us is your fight, you cannot discard your family and place, simply because you want to.  You are a woman.  Yes, Abby, a woman.  You're no longer a little girl, and it's time you realized it.  With that comes advantages, and disadvantages.  You must learn to accept both."  

I knew he was right.  That I must embrace my womanhood, and take both sides of it.  But why did I still feel like so much a girl?  And what were the advantages of which he spoke?  All I could see is sitting at home idle, unable to do anything at all of importance.  Why could I not abandon my family, when I hated them so much?

Charles had assured me that no one in Boston knew of my other existence, Jemmy, who ran messages for them before Chris was killed.  While I was not ashamed of Jemmy, I desperately wanted these men, who I looked up to so much, to approve of me, a thing that I knew I could never gain if they were aware of my younger existence.  

Once in a while, Charles said they wondered where Jemmy was, and if he was all right.  I myself often wondered this.  What _had_ happened to Jemmy?  Did he still exist, and was he all right?  Or had he never existed at all, except as a figment of my imagination.  

            "Do you think the redcoats will come and shut us down, Sam?" John Hancock asked, referring to the Committee of Correspondence, which Sam Adams had revived not 6 months back, and the British government had discovered just recently.   

            "They can certainly try," replied the great Sam Adams.  "But they won't succeed." He said, sipping his wine indifferently, as we sat at the Warrens' table, celebrating the return of a former member of the Long Room.  

            Thomas Melville was a young man of twenty years of age, just recently returned from Harvard.  He had been a member of the Patriot societies for a year or so, when he decided to finish his schooling, before the war started, and it was too late.  Although he had only lived in Boston for a year before he left, Thomas Melville had become widely known.  He was known for his youthful passion, and overpowering charisma.  Many said his speeches competed with those of James Otis himself, and that his presence of mind and person could convert even General Gage to the side of the Whigs.  

            "But they can still arrest you, as well as the other members of the committee." I put in, marveling at my own boldness.  All eyes were upon me now, with mixed expressions of amazement, humor, and shock.  Charles cast a long, reprimanding look at me, as I tried to ignore him.  Mr. Melville began to laugh, and feigned a sudden fit of coughing.  

            "That is quite true, Miss Atkins," said Mr. Adams.  "But they would not be able to hold us for more than a month or so, until a fair trial was given, and we were released."

            Partly to spite Charles, and partly because I wished to, I spoke again.  "Mayhap they would not give you a fair trial." I said, looking at Charles out of the corner of my eyes.  "If they can take away others of our rights, why not the right to a fair trial as well?"  Charles choked on his wine.  _It serves him right. _I thought.  

            "That is a chance that I, and the other members of the committee must be willing to take," said Mr. Adams, obviously finished with his conversation with me.  However, I knew that Charles was in no way finished with me, and that I would receive a stern lecture on the way home.  I also knew that Thomas Melville was still silently laughing, and continued to amusedly glance at me throughout the dinner.    

"Abby, I do not approve of how you contradicted Sam Adams this evening."  Here came the lecture.  We were on our way back to Miss Mather's, and Charles simply could not resist reprimanding me.  He enjoyed it fully, this new responsibility he had as an older brother.  In all actuality, the only power he held over me was the threat that he would tell my parents everything about me, which I knew he would never do.  Nonetheless, I generally obeyed him out of love and respect.  "You were completely rude, and it mustn't happen again."

            "I was not rude, Charles," I said, glaring at him defiantly.  "You did not approve that I spoke in the first place.  The fact of the matter is, that women are not supposed to speak of politics in polite company, and I did."  Charles knew I was right, and remained silent, thinking of a way to convince me, and himself, that this last statement was not true.  

            "What would you have me do, Abby?" Charles said softly.  "Change the rules of conduct in the presence of polite company?" Now it was Charles' turn, to ask me what to do, for the first time since we had met.

            "No, Charles," I said. "I only ask that you do not require me to abide by them." But we both knew that he could not do that.  If I wanted to remain in the company of his friends, I must not offend them, which meant following those rules of gender, which I so fervently abhorred.  

            We both remained silent for a long while, until I spoke, suddenly remembering another peculiar event during the dinner.  "Are you and Thomas Melville good friends?" I asked, looking at him skeptically.  

            "Yes," Charles replied.  "We are very good friends.  I perhaps know him better than any other member of the Long Room."  Now he looked at me questioningly, wanting to know why I was inquiring.  

            "No doubt you wrote to him while he was in Harvard," I said, accusing him of an unknown crime.  He sensed my allegation, and became defensive.

            "Of course I wrote to him," he retorted edgily.  "We corresponded frequently."  I stared fixedly at him, as if to say _I know what you did, now admit it.  _But what did he do?  Thomas Melville had looked at me funnily all evening, and I wanted to know why.   "What did you tell him about me?"  I asked, now hinting at what I was indicting him of.  

            "I told him that you were a courageous little piece, and that you had a great deal of continually overwhelming spirit."  Charles tired of the conversation, and stared intently out the window of the carriage.  _Well, _I thought _perhaps Thomas Melville is just odd. _


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13                          **September 1773**

            Goodness how time flew by so quickly!  The colonies continued to protest against Britain's taxes and lack of representation in Parliament; at least the troops returned home after the Boston Massacre, what a relief that was.  Somehow I had managed to keep my political orientation secret from my family, and also my meetings with Charles.  However, Meg was always too sharp for me, and suspected something.  But she could find no proof, as I well knew-this did not keep me from living in constant fear of her threats.  Why couldn't she just go back to Philadelphia, and marry some haughty Loyalist?!  

"Miss Atkins, you become more beautiful each time I see you," said a smiling Thomas Melville, as I turned crimson under his gaze.  More and more I was learning to be a demure lady.  No man of good breeding would accept such a feisty girl as I had formerly been.  "And how is your needlework progressing?"  

"Well, thank you," I replied.  _Goodness, wouldn't men get bored with such a prim and proper woman?_  I kept my eyes upon the ground, and every once in a while batted my eyelashes with seductive yet innocent beauty.  And he noticed.  What had happened to the man who became amused at my lack of womanly grace?  Who had stifled a laugh when I went against my brother?  He was the man I found a keen interest for; surely he _had_ appreciated my spirit.  But the eyelash-batting had a pleasing effect, amusing enough to suit me for the moment.  Every time he looked my way, I saw a scrutinizing interest in his crystal blue eyes.  But there was more than interest in those eyes.  There was a strong gaze, as if he could see straight through me into my insides.  Every time he looked my way, I felt so exposed, so _naked._  I both wanted to run and hide, and stay rooted in that place forever.  

"What do you think about that new tax on tea, Thomas?" My brother noticed the way Thomas looked at me, and he did _not_ like it.  

"I think it is damned insolent of them to use these colonies, full of true English citizens, to better their interests, and keep a dying East India Company from going bankrupt."  _Well said!  _

A servant came into the room, and with a curtsy, "Mr. Atkins, a boy is at the door, saying he must speak to you immediately.  I'm sorry Sir, but he refuses to wait."

"That's alright, I shall see to him directly," Charles replied. "Thomas, please excuse me for a moment."

"Surely."

So there I was, alone with him at last!  I suddenly became extremely self-conscious, as I felt his gaze upon me.  "Miss Atkins, may I be so bold as to ask how it is that your family allows you to associate with your brother, whose politics they so ardently abhore?"

"In truth, Mr. Melville, they do not.  I am supposedly learning how to sew at the home of a neighbor," I reluctantly applied.  _Will he disapprove?_  He laughed, a hearty laugh, exactly as he had the first time I had met him; then the brief coughing fit.  

"Forgive me, it is very seldom that one finds such a spirited woman in society such as this," he looked apologetic, almost a little pleading.  I smiled widely, and forgot to batt my eyelashes.

"May I ask whether spirit is considered a good thing in a lady?"

"Not conventionally, it would seem, but certainly by me.  You must forgive me if, at times, it seems as if I am taken in by the common eyelash-batting of girls nowadays, but it seems to be all the fashion.  I even had begun to fear that your perfecting that art meant you did not have the vivacity I had thought you to have," he smiled shyly, yet surely.  I blushed, and looked away as my brother re-entered the room.  

"Hello Abby," Peter greeted me, as I walked into the printing office of the _Boston Gazette_.  After giving up my charade as Jemmy, I still visited this place often, though it pained me to no longer be permitted to help with their treasonous activities.  In actuality, I was not even permitted to be aware of these activities, but I was, although I could never speak of it to anyone, even my good friend Peter.  

We had become friends on different terms now, Peter and I.  He no longer became frustrated when I kept my eyes upon the floor, or when I did not passionately discuss taxation without representation.  However, Peter was the one person I could speak freely with who would not regard me with scorn.  He never so much as raised an eyebrow when I looked him squarely in the eyes, or expressed my strong political views.  And, should I ever find his eyebrows raised at my behavior, I saw curiosity and even impression in those hazel eyes.  

I had begun to change my ways, to be the proper lady I was raised to be.  Peter remained the one person who I could never face without desperately longing to don my street clothes and run messages again.  Only with Peter could I feel completely comfortable and even proud as myself.  I wanted our old camaraderie back, his former trust, and the boyish humor he could never show to a lady of breeding.  And yet, little by little, I developed a new relationship with my former friend.  He learned to trust me more and more each day, and while I knew I could never return to our days of boyish gaiety, I found myself valuing our new friendship above his friendship with Jemmy.

"How goes it this day?" 

"Well, thank you.  And how goes the business of treason against the King?"  He let out a hearty laugh, one I remembered well.  I smiled.  _At least I am still able to make him laugh as I once did, even if in a different context._

"You must remember we are loyal to King George in what we print.  It's no treason to write the truth," he replied.

"Of course, Peter, I won't forget."

"And how have you managed to slip out from under the watchful eyes of your mother once again?" 

"I am, of course, sewing with Miss Mather," I replied.

"Goodness!  You must be the best seamstress in the country by now!" Peter exclaimed.  "But, perhaps a more difficult task, how did you escape the watchful eyes of your brother?"

"Aye, it was an extremely difficult task to accomplish.  However, I have noticed that my brother feels rather awkward around me as of late, and would just assume that I occupied my hours of freedom in other manners."  I was purposely vague, not wishing to explain in great detail the peculiar behavioral triangle between myself, my brother, and his dashing friend.  Peter, however, never let my subtle evasions of his questions go unnoticed.

"And why this awkwardness between the two of you?"  I blushed and took a strong interest in the floorboards.  "Abby, I know my father's floor isn't that interesting," Peter smirked.  Oh!  Peter's smirk absolutely _killed_ me.  I was miffed and flustered beyond belief.  "Come on Abby, what now?"

Continuing to blush.  Still blushing.  "I fear my brother does not approve of my feelings for a certain friend of his."  Peter's smirk vanished instantly, and an unreadable expression came over his face before he briefly turned away.  He quickly regained his composure, and turned back to speak.

"And does this friend return your sentiments?" he asked, in a tone which I was unable to make out whatsoever.  "Does he even know who you are?"

"I believe he does return my sentiments, and of course he knows who I am: his friend's sister and daughter of a Tory family," I replied, still puzzled yet slightly affronted; I almost felt that Peter did not approve.

"No, but who you _really_ are: your spirit, your boldness, your strong views- or does he simply see a beautiful, demure, eyelash-batting girl?"

Now I was most definitely affronted.  "_You_ have never seen me bat my eyelashes," I snapped, and walked briskly out of the shop.  


	14. Chapter 14

            Chapter **                   December 1773**

            It was a cold day in December when the ships came in.  We knew they were coming, and yet new anger boiled in our veins at actually seeing them in our harbor.  For weeks I had begged Charles to tell me what had been planned to deal with the ships and their unwanted tea, but to no avail.  Charles knew me too well, and knew what I would do with the knowledge of a new Patriot plot: I would join in.  But Charles was not the only one who knew what Sam Adams had up his sleeve, almost every street rat knew where to be and what to do.  

            The rain that had been earlier on the 16th had cleared to show a beautiful moon over Griffins Wharf.  I recognized Mr. Revere easily, even with his sooty face and Indian costume.  Boys approached him, saying the obviously arranged sign "Me Know You."  I held back, wondering what help I would be without an axe, or the strength to pry open the crates should I have one.  I also wondered if I would be recognized as Jemmy, but quickly decided not, as that had been years ago, and, in any case, my face was smeared with soot and the dark night.  

            I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned with a start.  I couldn't well make out his face in the dark, but the shape of his jaw showed clearly.   "Jemmy," Peter whispered.  I hadn't spoken to him since my confrontation with him two months ago, and wondered if he was still angry.  Although, in fact, it really had only been me who was angry.  "You shouldn't be here-your brother would have a fit, or what if one of your family found out?"

            "I don't care, Peter, I want to be a part of this.  Damn the consequences," I hissed, glaring at him ardently.

            "You won't have the strength to open the crates.  Please, please go home," my good friend implored me to be reasonable, as I well knew what he asked was the only reasonable course.  But how could desire be overcome by reason?  I did not know the answer to this question, yet somehow I found myself turning around, and walking home.  And now, I know: reason cannot overcome desire, but one desire can overcome another.  Desire for what, you ask?  My guess was as good as yours.      

            "Jemmy," Peter called after me.  I turned to look him straight in the eyes.  "Would you pay me a visit when you can?"  I nodded, and watched with envy as he turned to help our cause.  


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15 January 1774  
  
My dearest Miss Atkins, It seems like years since we were last in each other's company! Jeremiah is to be married, and the wedding shall take place on the 14th of March. I am sure you have received an invitation, but thought I would inform you of this news myself. Would you be so kind as to join me for tea on the 21st? Please do me this honor. I would be delighted to see you. Yours, Susan Hathorne  
  
I could see no reason why I should not accept this invitation, and so I did. Susan was as beautiful and vivacious as ever, her blond ringlets bouncing joyously as she jumped from her plush, green-and-white-striped seat to greet me. "Abby!" she exclaimed "Oh how wonderful it is too see you! It has been much too long." "It has," I said, and I meant it. I had missed having a friend like Susan-someone to giggle with, to speak to of girlish things and be understood completely. But I wasn't sure I wanted to speak of girlish things anymore. I knew that I missed those days of innocence, deep in the back recesses of my mind. I would never admit it, for it went against all my principles of freedom and independence that I missed being a slave to my family and never being permitted to think for myself. "And how have you been?" Susan inquired. It seemed like the first time which I had heard that particular phrase used in a sincere manner: I was so accustomed to Mama's friends (Abby darling, you look simply marvelous. How have you been, my dear?). "To be entirely frank, I've been fair to meddling, Susan. My sister Meg continues to be a trial." Susan frowned, and then burst out laughing. "Oh Abby, why in heaven's name are you speaking like that? I hope we've been through more than to apply those frilly manners." Her blue eyes sparkled with her common gaiety, and I saw my old friend, just as I had left her; so she would forgive me, for abandoning her for so long. I laughed. "I'm sorry, Susan. I wasn't sure where we stood." Conversation flowed freely after that, although no confessions were made on my part. Susan remained Loyalist, though neutral to politics as anything other than a family obligation. Jeremiah was to be married to Meghan something-or-other, a name I had heard vaguely as a kind girl-from a Patriot family, no less. I was most definitely impressed, although not surprised. I knew I should have known better than to think that Jem-or any true friendship-could be blinded by his political leanings. I was utterly ashamed by my conduct: it had, after all, been I who had been blinded by my own political leanings when I distanced myself from my two Loyalist friends. There was another friendship in which I had been blinded by my fervent Patriotism, and it was high time for that to end. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16                                                             February 1774**

I knocked timidly on the door of the printing office.  It was opened by Mr. Edes.  "Is Peter in?" I inquired, looking somewhat like a meek mouse, expecting the cat to come around the corner and pounce at any moment.  

            "Abby, how lovely to see you again!  How goes it?"  I replied it went well, shifting my weight tentatively from one foot to another.  "Ah, forgive me, you must be anxious to see Peter.  Yes, he is upstairs setting up the chairs."  Mr. Edes winked at me.  _How did he know the extent of my knowledge of the goings-on at the shop?  Especially with regards to the Long Room…_  

            "Thank you, Mr. Edes."  I entered the shop, and climbed the ladder into the Long Room, a place which I regarded as a sort of shrine in which holy priests of Liberty met to bless all our futures.  Sure enough, Peter was there, placing chairs around a long table.  I watched him as he lifted them, the muscles in his arms revealed by the rolled-up sleeves of his rough cotton shirt.  I guessed he had had to carry the chairs from the floor below, because the top few buttons of his shirt were undone, and a slight flush covered his face.  I took a deep breath, and spoke.  "Peter?"  I timidly said his name, one that had been on my mind for almost a month now.  I opened my eyes wide, and fumbled with my hands.  

            He looked up, but didn't turn around to look at me.  An unreadable expression, somewhat wary, spread across his face as he stared at the wall across from him.  "I've missed you, Abby," he said.  

            "And I you."  I approached him, stopping a few steps away, unsure what to do.  

            "Why, then, did you not come see me?"  He looked tired of a sudden, as if not ready to deal with me yet—more important things, such as meticulously arranging our shrine.  

            I stepped in front of him, and put a hand on his arm.  "I'm sorry," I said.  He shook my hand off his arm.  "I was angry."

            He finally met my gaze, and regarded me, neutrally, the sadness having disappeared from his eyes.  Finally, after what seemed like hours, a smile broke over his face, and laughter erupted from his open mouth.  "I suppose I should have known better than to tell Abigail Atkins she would not be of use, eh?"  

I smiled wanly, and shook my head.  "Aye, you should have known much better."  He studied me, puzzled.

"There was something else, wasn't there?"  I looked away, at the ever-intriguing floor.  "Perhaps there still is?"  He cocked his head to the side, trying coax me into looking him in the eyes.

I bit my lip, and regarded his hazel eyes with level defiance.  "Only that you should have known better than to regard me, a woman, as weaker or more willing to sacrifice my dignity."  

"Oh Abby, how could I possibly see you as weak, when I know what a truly, vicious shrew you can be?"

"I don't know.  But you assumed that I would become an eyelash-batting Southern belle over any old man that I happened to fancy."

Now it was his turn to look at the floor.  He exhaled, a heavy sigh, and turned down the corners of his lips.  "My behavior that day was uncalled for.  Will you forgive me?"

I was taken aback.  I had not expected a straight apology, with no explanation or excuse.  I should have, Peter's character being very straightforward and unabashed.  Maybe it was that I had wanted an explanation, and to not receive one was disappointing.  But friends forgive each other, and so I did.  However, I strongly wondered what had caused said uncalled for behavior.  


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17**                                                                March 1774**

Charles' sitting room: soft blue walls, and green furniture.  In all honesty, it was a very tasteful place.  Today was the first time it ever occurred to me to wonder why Charles, a man who would never care about the color of his furniture, had a beautiful sitting room in the middle of beautiful living quarters.  

I was sitting on a plush green couch, very comfortable.  But I was too tense to take advantage of this comfort: Thomas was coming to "tea" (no actual tea could be allowed in Charles' household, but we made do with some sort of substitute, God knows what was in it).  My mind wandered, until finally, there they were.  I rose to greet them.  Charles entered the room first, followed by Thomas.  Oh, Thomas, Thomas!  He wore a gray suit, as pristine and handsome as ever.  

"Miss Atkins, you look lovelier each time I see you," Thomas said from behind Charles.  Charles scowled, and Thomas grinned, his white teeth showing.  He winked; lucky Charles' back was to him.  A smooth eyelid closed over one of his crystal blue eyes, and I wanted to fall straight back onto my brother's plush, green couch and wait for Thomas to wake me up—with a kiss, perhaps. 

"Mr. Melville, you flatter me," I said.  I fluttered my black eyelashes over my green eyes, and gave a slight, graceful smile.  

Charles glared at me, and Thomas opened his mouth to speak again.  "Enough!" Charles said, looking at me pointedly with his steely, blue eyes.  I swear, that man could have cut me apart piece by piece with his eyes alone.  I sat down on that infuriatingly green couch.  

After an hour or so of Charles and Thomas talking politics, all the while Thomas and I exchanging glances, smiles, and winks—flirting, as Susan would put it, Charles had had enough.  

"Oh for heavens' sakes, Thomas!" he burst out, after a particularly loud giggle on my part.  "If you want to court her, _ask_ me!"  I wiped the grin off my face immediately.  As amusing as an exasperated Charles was, this was the moment of truth.  Had all Thomas' gestures been simple fun, or did he feel as strongly for me as I did for him?  I looked into his swirly, blue eyes, and prayed to God that I hadn't been deceived.  

He ran a hand through his beautiful, blond hair, and there was a moment's silence that seemed like hundreds of years.  He coughed, that cough I had come to realize signified some emotion in his chest.  Without any further hesitation, Thomas spoke.  "Charles, you are the closest thing to a parent Abigail has.  Even were this not true, you are the closest thing to a parent of Abigail's who I will ever be able to speak to.  As such, I would like to ask your permission to court her."  I realized I had been holding my breath since Charles had spoken, and now gasped—hopefully silently—filling my lungs with much-needed air.  "That is, of course, if Miss Atkins is off accord?"  Thomas looked at me, a half grin on his face.  

I tried to steady my breathing, and willed myself to speak.  "Yes," I said.  It came out as a faint murmur, a puff of air exiting my shaking lips.  

Charles smiled, and held out his hand for Thomas to shake.  "I couldn't think of a better man," he said.  


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18                           **June 1774**

"What do you think of these Acts?" Thomas and I were walking Griffin's Wharf, where only a few months ago I had walked in the moonlight intent upon defying King George and his tax on tea.  The once-busy harbor of Boston was now deserted, with the exception of a few English ships, menacing us from their position on the glassy water. 

"I think King George is struggling to regain control of his colonies," Thomas replied, smiling at me with that opening of his lips I loved so well.  "He needs to make an example of someone, and who better than the rabble who seems to be putting up the biggest ruckus over here."  Anger still boiled in my veins as I thought of the Intolerable Acts King George had passed in response to the tea party, closing our harbor until the tea was paid for.  Even worse, we were not allowed to hold town meetings, and were forced to house soldiers in our own homes.  It was difficult for me to refer to them as soldiers, but I knew that "bloodybacks" was too disrespectful to be uttered by a girl of seventeen.

Seventeen!  My, I had grown!  Everyone seemed to notice it: Mama, Charles, even Meg had ceased treating me as so much of a child.  I did not know if any of these boded well: Mama was increasing her efforts to marry me off to an influential Loyalist, Charles was becoming more and more worried about our charade with Miss Mather, and Meg…I felt as if Meg was an inch away from discovering everything. 

I looked out over the harbor, and was filled with a sudden, tired sadness.  My fight against all society constraining me, against Mama and the rest of my family, represented our fight against our King, and our country.  Would we ever win our freedom?  We were small colonies who still relied so much on Europe for food and goods, still so much little children, growing and learning and struggling to live independently and be recognized as adults.  "How long can we continue to live like this?"  I turned to look at Thomas, into his blue eyes, still clear and alive with hope and determination. 

He took my hand in his, and looked into the distance across the wharf.  "Whatever this is," he replied, "It won't continue for long.  We're becoming more and more angry, and King George becomes more and more desperate.  Right now, we're defying him, yes, but it's little scrimmages, hit and run.  Something must happen."

"But what?" 

Thomas looked at me, and his lips spread into a slight, tender smile.  "We'll have to fight," he said. 

"I want to fight, I want to help us win," I said. 

"Oh Abby, of course you do," he said, and put a hand on my cheek.  Then he laughed.  "But you'll be hard put convincing Charles to let you." 

"Would you let me?" 

The smile immediately vanished from his face, and the muscles in his jaw tensed.  For the first time, I saw weariness in his blue eyes.  "No," he said.  We walked back to Charles' place in silence.  He placed a soft kiss on my cheek before leaving.  I avoided his eyes, and watched his back move further from me after he turned away. 


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19 **June 1774**

"Well of _course_ he wouldn't let you go fight in a war!" Susan was looking at me with an absolutely scandalized look on her beautiful face. I confessed to her the trouble between Thomas and I, and she had to side with him.

"It's who I am," I said, very resentful of her choice of sympathies. "I won't be able to just stand by and do nothing."

Susan laughed. "Oh, Abby! Everyone stifles you—maybe who you are is just a little too brazen and hot-headed." I could not believe my ears: my own friend, saying such things! I realized she was right about the first part, though. Everyone seemed to stifle who I was: Mamma, Charles, Meg, even Thomas: he may have found my boldness amusing at the dinner table, but only in small amounts. I knew he and Charles would only wish to protect me by not allowing me to fight, but also that I would not be able to tolerate it, especially from the two men who were supposed to know and understand me the most. Especially from the man I loved.

"Well, anyhow," I tired of this subject, knowing Susan would not understand how I felt—to be fair, I hardly ever understood how she felt. "It saddens me that I shall have to defy them both when this war starts."

"Will you really?" Susan asked. I would have expected another look of scandal to contort her beautiful features, but instead I saw something akin to doubt. " I know you hate the British a lot, and resent them for what you think they have done to you and your life, but is your hatred strong enough to fight, to kill?"

I looked at Susan, utterly dumbstruck to hear such foreboding, wise words from a girl I had thus far regarded as nothing more than a cheerful, girlish friend. I knew such a speech rivaled anything I would hear from Charles if I were to ever tell him of my intentions. Finally, I found the words to respond. "Oh Susan, you must understand: it isn't my hatred for Britain that drives me—strong as it is; it's my desire for freedom, which propels me forward and wills me to do things that I know full well I am not capable of doing. But somehow, I manage. I manage to be bold, and outspoken, and to hide my identity as a woman."

Susan laughed. Although I resented the look of merriment on her face, I couldn't help but laugh as well. "In the future, let's try to keep at least this part of living less serious than the rest."

"Agreed," I said.

"Now: aside from your differing views on gender roles, how are things going with you and Thomas?" I blushed: red crept into my cheeks like spilled milk.

"They're going well. I don't know why I'm blushing."  
"Is there anything to blush about?" Susan displayed an infuriatingly impish grin.

"No," I firmly replied.

"Alright."

"Susan, I must go. Mama expects me back to work on my needlework."

"Oh? Has she found Miss Mather's tutelage to be unsatisfactory?"

"Unfortunately, yes." We embraced, and I took my leave. My visits with Susan always left me lighthearted. This time, however, I couldn't help but consider her brutal description of war. Would I have the courage to see my convictions through? Or would I simply be another frivolous, silly girl who talked more than she ought to, and couldn't live up to what she said?


	20. Chapter 2022

Chapter 20**February 1775**

Charles regarded me with a weary look in his eyes, as though all patience had left him. "Abby, you must understand what it is you seek to do. Will you have the courage to give up all of your life, your family, and your identity? To cut off all communication with everyone you hold dear, and to masquerade as a man? Not only this, but will you be able to look upon the men who will become your friends, and lie to them, and watch their blood burst from their bodies by great volleys of cannon and muskets? Will you be able to kill the men across from your line, men who, although they wear the red of Britain, are nonetheless living, breathing men not so different from you? Not to mention the disease that will sweep through your camp, and you will have to watch as the flesh is shaved away from your bones, and those of your friends. Your desire for freedom may be strong, but is it strong enough to wield these burdens that your body has not the strength to bear?"

I knew my reply would have to be sure, and strong. I looked into his eyes, and my gaze did not waver. "It must have that strength. For what else can I do? I know that even if I do not have the strength of body to fight, I most certainly not have the strength of mind to sit idly by and hope for the best. And you're right in thinking that my identity as a woman is one of the things I am most proud of. But I realize that to make a difference in these colonies, at least for the time being, I must be a man. And I will do whatever it takes, because I am an American first, and a woman second."

Charles was silent for a long time. "We're much alike, you and I," he finally said. "I share your thoughts, your beliefs, and your dsires. Were you any other woman, I would gladly fight by your side. But two things hold me back. First, you are not a woman. You still have so much learning and growing up to do. Secondly, and most importantly, you are my sister, and I cannot let you do anything that would result in your harm."  
Anger would have boiled in my veins, but it did not. I finally understood my brother's piercing blue eyes: because I had wanted his respect, I ever felt his scrutiny as delving into the great caverns and crevasses of my soul. Whether Charles respected me or not was no longer of my concern: I had my future to look to, and the future of my country. I knew my role to play would be small, but so would the role of many, without whom no war would be fought, and none won. I turned away from my brother, and turned my eyes from the door I was about to walk through to look once more into his eyes. "Yet I will go, whether you would let me or not."

Chapter 21**April 17, 1775**

Mother woke me in the middle of the night. We were to leave immediately, she said. "Your brother Charles, of all people, came here and told me we must leave. Apparently, the rebels have started some sort of ruckus in a little provincial town." Thoughts flew through my head like puffs of air shot from a musket.

"But mother, the King's troops are here," I replied. "They hold Boston. Are we not safest in this place?"

"One would think, but Charles was most insistent." She shook her head. "Now pack your things. We'll leave within the hour." I nodded. Why would Charles want me to leave Boston? Would he not want me to stay here, away from the fighting?

"And Abby," my mother stopped at my doorway. "Charles also told me to keep a sharp eye on you. I want no deception from you."

Charles, Charles. If you cannot run my life, you'll have my mother do so for you. "Of course not, mother," I replied. I was out the side door only moments after she had left my room.

My dress was cumbersome in the crowded streets of Boston. Even at this late hour, the people were bustling in the streets, jostling each other in one great frenzy.

I paused at Charles' door to collect my courage. What was I to say?

"How dare you!" Words came easily in anger. "How dare you run my life. No, how dare you get _Mother_ to run my life when you're too weak to do it yourself."

Charles rose from his desk, an unreadable look upon his face. "This is her version of a sharp eye, I see. I suppose I should have expected as much, considering how often you've escaped her eye in the past."

"I won't be kept out of this, Charles." I walked towards him, and looked straight into his eyes. My gaze did not waver. "This is my country. This is my war."

"No, Abby," his voice raised slightly. I could see I had two choices before me: I could exchange words with Charles until mother came to fetch me, or I could leave. But to where? "This is no one's war, least of all yours."

"Why, Charles?" I shook my head. "Why? Why least of all mine? Because I'm a woman? Because I'm weak?"

"Because I tell you so! God's teeth, Abby, I will not let you get yourself killed!" He turned away from me, but I followed.

"And what about you?" I asked. "What will you do?"

"I had intended to fight, but I _will_ stay here and watch you if such becomes necessary."

"Then such is necessary."

Any proper scheming girl would have said "No, Charles, I'll be a good little girl and go with Mamma to wherever you want me to go," but I didn't. Charles regarded me with that disappointed/annoyed look I'd come to know so well, and replied "So be it." He took me by the arm, and escorted me quite firmly out to the street and back towards Mamma's house.

"Charles, please," I said, "this isn't necessary."

"Oh no?" he raised his eyebrows—his controlling, overbearing eyebrows. "Just a moment ago, you said it would be necessary for me to stay home from the war, when the war starts, which it certainly will, and watch your every move."

"Please, Charles, let me say goodbye to someone. Just one person."

Charles stopped walking. His eyes searched the street around us, flicking from detail to detail, looking anywhere but at me. "Alright," he finally said.

Chapter 22**April 18, 1775**

Boston was tinged with slight wisps of gray as we made our way through the streets. The wharf was just beginning to come to life, with the early messenger boys climbing sleepily up, up, slowly and quietly up gangplanks, and tapping ever so slightly on Captains' doors. A few sailors stood abovedecks, considering ringing the bell to wake the others or beginning their daily chores alone.

The shutters were drawn at the printing office. I knocked loudly, and Mr. Edes opened the door, groggily blinking sleep out of half-opened eyes. "Abby!" he said, "and Mr. Atkins, is something wrong?"

"No, Mr. Edes," I replied. "But could I see Peter? I'm sorry, but it can't wait."

"Yes, please, come in."

Peter was fully dressed. It didn't seem as if he'd slept at all that night, as his hair was untousled, but his clothing wrinkled, and his expression was one of exhaustion rather than one of having recently woken.

Charles caught my wrist before I went into a different room with Peter. "I'm letting you go here, Abby, but only if you give me your word to still be in that room when I come to fetch you," he said.

"You have my word." I glared at Charles as I said it. I hoped my eyes would slice deep into his chest and make him drop to the floor in anguish. They didn't.

I motioned to Peter to follow me up the ladder to the Long Room.

I didn't speak for a long time. Peter watched me carefully, and seemed to sense that I needed to take my time. "I love it up here," I said.

"Aye," he said. He looked around the room, at the old wood of the rafters, the long table where so many brave men had argued and laughed, and had planned for a future of lofty ideals.

"Why?"

He looked at me, startled. He didn't speak for a while. "Because it represents everything we want."

"But what _do_ we want?" I asked. "To pay less taxes? To allow everyone to have a say in his own destiny? _What_?"

"I suppose it's possible we all want different things," he said, eyes never leaving mine. "But I think what we're trying to get is the right to work towards those different things, each of us in our own way and our own time." Even now, decades later, people tell me it isn't possible, but I swear Peter's eyes changed during that last conversation. At that moment, the green in them sparkled outwards, outshining the smooth brown.

"And what if people still won't let us?"

"What's this all about, Abby?" Brown again—a gentle, imploring brown that I often go back to, when I need a place of peace.

"Charles is sending me away with Mamma."  
"He fears Boston is unsafe for you?"

"He fears I am unsafe for myself."

"There's a war brewing, Abby," Peter said. "Only yesterday, Paul Revere rode out to Concord to warn the militias that the Redcoats look to be gathering their resources. It won't be long now."  
"I know," I said. "I want to be a part of it."

"You want to fight." It wasn't a question. Peter nodded as he said it. He'd known it all along.

"Do you disapprove?" His lips pursed. Mine drew a harsh line, chin upturned, tongue ready to lash out at any slight reproach.

He tilted his head slightly to one side. "You'll be fighting a double war, you know," he finally replied, "one against the Redcoats, and one against your own army, all those who would not have you fight."

"Would you have me fight?"

"Abby, why does it matter what I would or would not have you do? I won't be there to support you. And even if I were, this isn't the streets of Boston we're talking about here, where we paint our faces and throw tea into the river."

"I know. I don't know why it's important to me. It seems no one's supporting me, no one believes I'm strong enough, I'm just a little girl with silly ideas and—"

Peter placed a hand on my arm. "It has nothing to do with how strong you are," he said. "They love you. They don't want to see you hurt. War hurts everyone, even the strongest of us," his eyes, a mix of green and brown, looked down at the floor and then caught mine again.

"But would you have me go?"

"To war? Mind you, I learned my lesson about telling Abigail Atkins what to do long ago," he hesitated. "But no, I wouldn't want you to go. Knowing you've been wounded in battle, or seen a sight that will haunt you forever, would be worse than experiencing those things myself."

I didn't ask him to explain what he'd said. Now, looking back, I would like to hear the exact words I know he meant to say, just to have them for safekeeping and remembrance. But at the time, it was enough to look into his eyes, a glow of green that somehow didn't overpower the deep brown, and know.


	21. Epilogue

My daughter is playing in the garden. She reminds me of me at her age: refusing to do anything "ladylike", such as keeping her dress clean. I've never asked her to learn to sew, but God forbid! Sometimes she even reminds me of myself at a much older age.

I think of Peter and Thomas every day. I loved both of them. And neither—at least not in the manner that I thought I did. They represented to me then, and still represent to me now, our fight to control our own destinies. Thomas Melville, with his eloquent words and lofty ideals, was our inspiration; Peter Edes was our reality. Each day, he laid out the chairs for the Long Room members and he laid out the typeset to publish their words. He would have fought without restraint during the war.

After our freedom was won, he started his own newspaper, the first in a small town that had none. He used the opportunity given to all of us: that to make a new future for ourselves, one of entirely our own choosing.

As for me, perhaps I should have chronicled my escapades, once again, as Jemmy—this time, in the red and blue of the United States army. But that is another story.


End file.
